LIVELIHOOD 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •  BOSTON  •   CHICAGO   '  DALLAS 
ATLANTA   •   SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •  BOMBAY  •  CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


LIVELIHOOD 


DRAMATIC  REVERIES 


BY 
WILFRID  WILSON  GIBSON 

AUTHOR  OF  "  DAILY  BREAD,"  "  BORDERLANDS  AND 
THOROUGHFARES,"  "  BATTLE  AND  OTHER  POEMS,"  ETC. 


flnrk 

THE  MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1917 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1917 

BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  January,  1917 


TO  AUDREY 

Audrey,  these  men  and  women  I  have  known 
I  have  brought  together  in  a  book  for  you, 
So  that  my  child  some  day  when  she  is  grown 
May  know  the  friendly  folk  her  father  knew. 

Wondering  how  fathers  can  be  so  absurd, 
Perhaps  you'll  take  it  idly  from  the  shelves, 
And,  reading,  hear,  as  once  I  overheard, 
These  men  and  women  talking  to  themselves. 

And  so  find  out  how  they  faced  life  and  earned, 
As  you  one  day  must  earn,  a  livelihood, 
And  how,  in  spite  of  everything,  they  learned 
To  take  their  luck  through  life  and  find  it  good. 

And,  maybe,  as  you  share  each  hope  and  fear 
And  all  the  secrets  that  they  never  told, 
For  their  sake  you'll  forgive  your  father,  dear, 
Almost  for  being  so  absurd  and  old. 

And  may  it  somewhat  help  to  make  amends 
To  think  that,  in  their  sorrow  and  their  mirth, 
Such  men  and  women  were  your  father's  friends 
In  old  incredible  days  before  your  birth. 


357979 


CONTENTS 

PAOK 

PRELUDE.    THE  OLD  NAIL-SHOP 3 

THE  SHAFT  .     .     .  /*     .     .     .     ...     .     .     .5 

IN  THE  ORCHESTRA 12 

THE  SWING 17 

THE  DROVE-ROAD 21 

THE  ROCKLIGHT 28 

THE  PLOUGH 35 

THE  OLD  PIPER 39 

THE  NEWS 44 

DAFFODILS 54 

BETWEEN  THE  LINES 59 

STRAWBERRIES 66 

THE  BLAST-FURNACE   .     .     .     ...     .     .     .     .  7° 

IN  THE  MEADOW 76 

PARTNERS 8° 

THE  ELM 87 

THE  DOCTOR 9* 

THE  LAMP 96 

THE  PLATELAYER i°5 

MAKESHIFTS                           i°9 


vii 


LIVELIHOOD 


THE  OLD  NAIL-SHOP 

I  dreamt  of  wings, — and  waked  to  hear 

Through  the  low-sloping  ceiling  clear 

The  nesting  starlings  flutter  and  scratch 

Among  the  rafters  of  the  thatch, 

Not  twenty  inches  from  my  head; 

And  lay,  half -dreaming  in  my  bed, 

Watching  the  far  elms — bolt-upright 

Black  towers  of  silence  in  a  night 

Of  stars,  between  the  window-sill 

And  the  low-hung  eaves,  square-framed,  until 

I  drowsed,  and  must  have  slept  a  wink  .  .  . 

And  wakened  to  a  ceaseless  clink 

Of  hammers  ringing  on  the  air  ... 

And,  somehow,  only  half-aware, 

I'd  risen  and  crept  down  the  stair, 

Bewildered  by  strange  smoky  gloom, 

Until  I'd  reached  the  living-room 

That  once  had  been  a  nail-shop  shed. 

And  where  my  hearth  had  blazed,  instead 

I  saw  the  nail-forge  glowing  red; 

And,  through  the  stife  and  smoky  glare, 

Three  dreaming  women  standing  there 

With  hammers  beating  red-hot  wire 

On  tinkling  anvils,  by  the  fire, 

To  ten-a-penny  nails;  and  heard — 

Though  none  looked  up  or  breathed  a  word — 

3 


LIVELIHOOD 

The  song  each  heart  sang  to  the  tune 
Of  hammers,  through  a  summer's  noon, 
When  they  had  wrought  in  that  red  glow, 
Alive,  a  hundred  years  ago — 
The  song  of  girl  and  wife  and  crone, 
Sung  in  the  heart  of  each  alone  .  .  . 

The  dim-eyed  crone  with  nodding  head — 
"He's  dead;  and  I'll,  too,  soon  be  dead." 

The  grave-eyed  mother,  gaunt  with  need — 
"Another  little  mouth  to  feed!" 

The  black-eyed  girl,  with  eyes  alight — 
"I'll  wear  the  yellow  beads  to-night." 


THE  SHAFT 

He  must  have  lost  his  way,  somehow.     'Twould 

seem 

He'd  taken  the  wrong  turning,  back  a  bit, 
After  his  lamp  ...  or  was  it  all  a  dream 
That  he'd  nigh  reached  the  cage — his  new  lamp  lit 
And  swinging  in  his  hand,  and  whistling,  glad 
To  think  the  shift  was  over— when  he'd  tripped 
And  stumbled,  like  the  daft,  club-footed  lad 
His  mother  called  him;  and  his  lamp  had  slipped 
And  smashed  to  smithereens;  and  left  him  there 
In  pitchy  dark,  half-stunned,  and  with  barked 

shins? 

He'd  cursed  his  luck;  although  he  didn't  care, 
Not  overmuch:  you  suffered  for  your  sins: 
And,  anyway,  he  must  be  nigh  the  shaft; 
And  he  could  fumble  his  way  out  somehow, 
If  he  were  last,  and  none  came  by.    'Twas  daft 
To  do  a  trick  like  thon. 

And  even  now 

His  mother  would  be  waiting.    How  she'ld  laugh 
To  hear  about  it!    She  was  always  game 
For  fun,  she  was,  and  such  a  one  for  chaff — 
A  fellow  had  no  chance.    But  'twas  the  same 
With  women  always:  you  could  never  tell 
What  they 'Id  be  at,  or  after  saying  next: 
They'd  such  queer,  tricky  tongues;  and  it  was  well 
For  men  to  let  them  talk  when  they  were  vexed — 

5 


LIVELIHOOD 

Although,  his  mother,  she  was  seldom  cross. 

But  she'ld  be  wondering,  now,  ay,  that  she  would — 

Hands  folded  in  her  apron,  at  a  loss 

To  know  what  kept  him,  even  now  she  stood, 

Biting  her  lips,  he'ld  warrant.    She  aye  bit 

Her  lips  till  they  were  white  when  things  went 

wrong. 

She'd  never  liked  his  taking  to  the  pit, 
After  his  father'd.  .  .  .  Ay,  and  what  a  song 
She'ld  make  .  .  .  and  supper  cold!    It  must  be 

late. 

The  last  on  the  last  shift!    After  to-day 
The  pit  was  being  laid  idle!    Jack,  his  mate, 
Had  left  him,  tidying — hurrying  away 
To  back  .  .  .  And  no  night-shift  .  .  . 

If  that  cursed  lamp 

Had  not  gone  out.  .  .  .  But  that  was  hours  ago— 
How  many  hours  he  couldn't  tell.    The  cramp " 
Was  in  his  thighs.    And  what  could  a  lad  know 
Who'd  crawled  for  hours  upon  his  hands  and  knees 
Through  miles  on  miles  of  hot,  black,  dripping  night 
Of  low-roofed,  unfamiliar  galleries? 
He'ld  give  a  hundred  pound  to  stand  upright 
And  stretch  his  legs  a  moment:  but,  somehow, 
He'd  never  reached  a  refuge,  though  he'd  felt 
The  walls  on  either  hand.    He'd  bumped  his  brow 
Till  he  was  dizzy.    And  the  heat  would  melt 
The  marrow  in  his  bones.    And  yet  he'd  gone 
A  dozen  miles  at  least,  and  hadn't  found 
Even  a  crossway.    On  and  on  and  on 
He'd  crawled,  and  crawled ;  and  never  caught  a  sound 

6 


THE   SHAFT 

Save  water,  dripping,  dripping,  or  the  creak 
Of  settling  coal.    If  he  could  only  hear 
His  own  voice  even;  but  he  dared  not  speak 
Above  a  whisper  .  .  . 

There  was  naught  to  fear; 
And  he  was  not  afraid  of  aught,  not  he! 
He  would  come  on  a  shaft,  before  he  knew. 
He  couldn't  miss.    The  longest  gallery 
Must  end  somewhere  or  other;  though  'twas  true 
He  hadn't  guessed  the  drift  could  be  so  long. 

If  he  had  not  come  straight  ...  If  he  had  turned, 
Unknowing,  in  the  dark  ...  If  he'd  gone  wrong 
Once,  then  why  not  a  dozen  times!    It  burned 
His  very  heart  to  tinder,  just  to  think 
That  he,  maybe,  was  crawling  round  and  round 
And  round  and  round,  and  hadn't  caught  a  blink 
Of  light  at  all,  or  hadn't  heard  a  sound.  .  .  . 
'Twas  queer,  gey  queer  .  .  . 

Or  was  he  going  daft, 
And  only  dreaming  he  was  underground 
In  some  black  pit  of  hell,  without  a  shaft- 
Just  one  long  gallery  that  wound  and  wound, 
Where  he  must  crawl  for  ever  with  the  drip 
Of  lukewarm  water  drumming  on  his  back  .  .  . 

'Twas  nightmare,  surely,  had  him  in  its  grip. 
His  head  was  like  to  split,  his  spine  to  crack  .  .  . 
If  he  could  only  call,  his  mother 'Id  come 
And  shake  him;  and  he'ld  find  himself  in  bed  .  .  . 
She'ld  joke  his  fright  away  .  .  .  But  he  was  dumb, 

7 


LIVELIHOOD 

And  couldn't  shout  to  save  himself  .  .  .  His  head 
Seemed  full  of  water,   dripping,   dripping,   drip- 
ping .  .  . 

And  he,  somehow,  inside  it — huge  and  dark 
His  own  skull  soared  above  him  .  .  .  He  kept 

slipping, 
And    clutching   at    the    crumbling   walls  ...  A 

spark 

Flared  suddenly;  and  to  a  blood-red  blaze 
His    head    was   bursting;    and    the   pain    would 
break  .  .  . 

'Twas  solid  coal  he'd  run  against,  adaze — 
Coal,  sure  enough.     And  he  was  broad  awake, 
And  crawling  still  through  that  unending  drift 
Of  some  old  working,  long  disused.    He'd  known 
That  there  were  such.    If  he  could  only  lift 
His  head  a  moment;  but  the  roof  of  stone 
Crushed  low  upon  him.    A  gey  narrow  seam 
He  must  be  in, — and  bad  to  work:  no  doubt 
That's  why  'twas  given  up.    He'ld  like  to  scream, 
His  cut  knees  hurt  so  sorely;  but  a  shout 
Might  bring  the  crumbling  roof  down  on  his  head, 
And  squash  him  flat. 

If  he  could  only  creep 

Between  the  cool  white  sheets  of  his  own  bed, 
And  turn  towards  the  wall,  and  sleep,  and  sleep — 
And  dream,  maybe,  of  pigeons  soaring  high, 
Turning  and  tumbling  in  the  morning  light, 
With  wings  ashimmer  in  a  cloudless  sky. 
He'ld  give  the  world  to  see  a  bonnie  flight 

8 


THE  SHAFT 

Of  his  own  pigeons  rise  with  flapping  wings, 
Soaring  and  sweeping  almost  out  of  sight, 
Till  he  was  dizzy,  watching  the  mad  things 
Tossing  and  tumbling  at  that  dazzling  height. 
Ay,  and  his  homers,  too — if  they'd  come  in, 
He  hoped  his  mother'd  fed  them.    They  would  be 
Fair  famished  after  such  a  flight,  and  thin. 
But  she  would  feed  them,  sure  enough;  for  she 
Liked  pigeons,  too — would  stand  there  at  the  door 
With  arms  akimbo,  staring  at  the  blue, 
Her  black  eyes  shining  as  she  watched  them  soar, 
Without  a  word,  till  they  were  out  of  view. 
And  how  she  laughed  to  hear  them  scold  and  pout, 
Ruffle  and  fuss — like  menfolk,  she  would  say: 
Nobody  knowing  what  'twas  all  about, 
And  least  of  all  themselves.    That  was  her  way, 
To  joke  and  laugh  the  tantrums  out  of  him. 
He'ld  tie  his  neckerchief  before  the  glass; 
And  she'ld  call  him  her  pigeon,  Peter  Prim, 
Preening  himself,  she'd  say,  to  meet  his  lass — 
Though  he'd  no  lass,  not  he!    A  scarf  well  tied, 
No  gaudy  colours,  just  a  red  or  yellow, 
Was  what  he  fancied.    What  harm  if  he  tried 
To  keep  himself  respectable!    A  fellow — 
Though  womenfolk  might  laugh  and  laugh  .  .  . 

And  now 

He  wondered  if  he'ld  hear  her  laugh  again 
With  hands  on  hips  and  sparkling  eyes.     His 

brow 

Seemed  clampt  with  red-hot  iron  bands;  and  pain 
Shot  red-hot  needles  through  his  legs — his  back, 


LIVELIHOOD 

A  raw  and  aching  spine  that  bore  the  strain 
Of  all  the  earth  above  him :  the  dead  black 
Unending  clammy  night  blinding  his  brain 
To  a  black  blankness  shot  with  scarlet  streaks 
Of  searing  lightning;  and  he  scarcely  knew 
If  he'd  been  crawling  hours,  or  days,  or  weeks  .  .  . 
And  now  the  lightning  glimmered  faintly  blue, 
And  gradually  the  blackness  paled  to  grey: 
And  somewhere,  far  ahead,  he  caught  the  gleam 
Of  light,  daylight,  the  very  light  of  day, 
Day,  dazzling  day! 

Thank  God,  it  was  no  dream. 
He  felt  a  cooler  air  upon  his  face; 
And  scrambling  madly  for  some  moments  more, 
Though  centuries  it  seemed,  he  reached  the  place 
Where  through  the  chinks  of  the  old  crumbling 

door 

Of  a  disused  upcast-shaft,  grey  ghostly  light 
Strained  feebly,  though  it  seemed  the  sun's  own 

blaze 

To  eyes  so  long  accustomed  to  the  night 
And  peering  blindly  through  that  pitchy  maze. 

The  door  dropped  from  its  hinges — and  upright 
He  stood,  at  last,  bewildered  and  adaze, 
In  a  strange  dazzling  world  of  flowering  white. 
Plumed  snowy  fronds  and  delicate  downy  sprays, 
Fantastic  as  the  feathery  work  of  frost, 
Drooped  round  him  from  the  wet  walls  of  the 
shaft— 


10 


THE   SHAFT 

A  monstrous  growth  of  mould,  huge  mould.    And 

lost 

In  wonder  he  stood  gaping;  and  then  laughed 
To  see  that  living  beauty — quietly 

He  laughed  to  see  it:  and  awhile  forgot 
All  danger.    He  would  tell  his  mother:  she 
Would  scarce  know  whether  to  believe  or  not, — 
But  laugh  to  hear  how,  when  he  came  on  it, 
It  dazzled  him.    If  she  could  only  see 
That  fluffy  white — come  on  it  from  the  pit, 
Snow-white  as  fantails'  feathers,  suddenly 
As  he  had,  she'ld  laugh  too:  she  .  .  . 

Icy  cold 

Shot  shuddering  through  him,  as  he  stept  beneath 
A  trickle.    He  looked  up.    That  monstrous  mould 
Frightened  him;  and  he  stood  with  chattering  teeth, 
Seeming  to  feel  it  growing  over  him 
Already,  shutting  out  the  fleck  of  sky 
That  up  the  slimy  shaft  gleamed  far  and  dim. 
'Twould  flourish  on  his  bones  when  he  should  lie 
Forgotten  in  the  shaft.    Its  clammy  breath 
Was  choking  him  already.    He  would  die, 
And  no  one  know  how  he'd  come  by  his  death  .  .  . 
Dank,  cold  mould  growing  slowly.    By  and  by 
'Twould  cover  him;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell  .  .  . 

With  a  wild  cry  he  tried  to  scramble  out, 
Clutching  the  wall  .  .  .  Mould  covered  him  .  .  . 

He  fell, 
As,  close  at  hand,  there  came  an  answering  shout. 


ii 


IN  THE  ORCHESTRA 

He'd  played  each  night  for  months;  and  never  heard 

A  single  tinkly  tune,  or  caught  a  word 

Of  all  the  silly  songs  and  sillier  jests; 

And  he'd  seen  nothing,  even  in  the  rests, 

Of  that  huge  audience  piled  from  floor  to  ceiling 

Whose  stacked  white  faces  sent  his  dazed  wits 

reeling  .  .  . 

He'd  been  too  happy;  and  had  other  things 
To  think  of  while  he  scraped  his  fiddle-strings  .  .  . 

But  now,  he'd  nothing  left  to  think  about — 
Nothing  he  dared  to  think  of  ... 

In  and  out 

The  hollow  fiddle  of  his  head  the  notes 
Jingled  and  jangled;  and  the  raucous  throats 
Of  every  star  rasped  jibes  into  his  ear, — 
Each  separate  syllable,  precise  and  clear, 
As  though  'twere  life  or  death  if  he  should  miss 
A  single  cackle,  crow  or  quack,  or  hiss 
Of  cockadoodling  fools  .  .  . 

A  week  ago 

He'd  sat  beside  her  bed;  and  heard  her  low 
Dear  voice  talk  softly  of  her  hopes  and  fears — 
Their  hopes  and  fears;  and  every  afternoon 
He'd  watched  her  lying  there  .  .  . 

A  fat  buffoon 

In  crimson  trousers  prancing,  strut  and  cluck — 

12 


IN  THE   ORCHESTRA 

Cackling:  "A  fellow  never  knows  his  luck. 

He  never  knows  his  luck.    He  never  knows 

His  luck."  .  .  .    And  in  and  out  the  old  gag  goes 

Of  either  ear,  and  in  and  out  again, 

Playing    at    "You-can't-catch-me"    through    his 

brain — 
"Er  knows  his  luck."  .  .  . 

How  well  they  thought  they  knew 
Their  luck,  and  such  a  short  while  since,  they  two 
Together.    Life  was  lucky:  and  'twas  good 
Then,  to  be  fiddling  for  a  livelihood— 
His  livelihood  and  hers  .  .  . 

A  woman  sang 
With  grinning  teeth.    The  whole  house  rocked  and 

rang. 

In  the  whole  house  there  was  no  empty  place: 
And  there  were  grinning  teeth  in  every  face 
Of  all  those  faces,  grinning,  tier  on  tier, 
From  orchestra  to  ceiling  chandelier 
That  caught  in  every  prism  a  grinning  light, 
As  from  the  little  black  box  up  a  height 
The   changing  limelight  streamed  down  on  the 

stage. 

And  he  was  filled  with  reasonless,  dull  rage 
To  see  those  grinning  teeth,  those  grinning  rows; 
And  wondered  if  those  lips  would  never  close, 
But  gape  for  ever  through  an  endless  night, 
Grinning  and  mowing  in  the  green  limelight. 

And  now  they  seemed  to  grin  in  mockery 
Of  him;  and  then,  as  he  turned  suddenly 

13 


LIVELIHOOD 

To  face  them,  flaming,  it  was  his  own  face 

That  mowed  and    grinned    at   him    from   every 

place — 

Grimacing  on  him  with  the  set,  white  grin 
Of  his  own  misery  through  that  dazzling  din  .  .  . 
Yet,  all  the  while  he  hadn't  raised  his  head, 
But  fiddled,  fiddled  for  his  daily  bread, 
His  livelihood — no  longer  hers  .  .  . 

And  now 

He  heard  no  more  the  racket  and  the  row, 
Nor  saw  the  aching,  glittering  glare,  nor  smelt 
The  smother  of  hot  breaths  and  smoke — but  felt 
A  wet  wind  on  his  face  .  .  . 

He  sails  again 

Home  with  her  up  the  river  in  the  rain — 
Leaving  the  grey  domes  and  grey  colonnades 
Of  Greenwich  in  their  wake  as  daylight  fades — 
By  huge  dark  cavernous  wharves  with  flaring  lights, 
Warehouses  built  for  some  mad  London  night's 
Fantastic  entertainment, — grimmer  far 
Than  Baghdad  dreamt  of — monstrous  and  bizarre, 
They  loom  against  the  night;  and  seem  to  hold 
Preposterous  secrets  horrible  and  old, 
Behind  black  doors  and  windows. 

Yet  even  they 

Make  magic  with  more  mystery  the  way, 
As,  hand  in  hand,  they  sail   through   the  blue 

gloam 
Up  the  old  river  of  enchantment,  home  .  .  . 


IN  THE   ORCHESTRA 

He  heard  strange,  strangled  voices — he,  alone 
Once  more, — like  voices  through  the  telephone, 
Thin  and  unreal,  inarticulate 
Twanging  and  clucking  at  terrific  rate- 
Pattering,  pattering  .  .  . 

And  again  aware 

He  grew  of  all  the  racket  and  the  glare, 
Aware  again  of  the  antic  strut  and  cluck— 
And  there  was  poor  old  "Never-know-his-luck" 
Doing  another  turn — yet,  not  a  smile, 
Although    he'd    changed    his    trousers    and    his 

style. 

The  same  old  trousers  and  the  same  old  wheeze 
Was  what  the  audience  liked.    He  tried  to  please, 
And  knew  he  failed:  and  suddenly  turned  old 
Before  those  circling  faces  glum  and  cold — 
A  fat  old  man  with  cracked  voice  piping  thin, 
Trying  to  make  those  wooden  faces  grin, 
With  frantic  kicks  and  desperate  wagging  head, 
To  win  the  applause  that  meant  his  daily  bread — 
Gagging  and  prancing  for  a  livelihood, 
His  daily  bread  .  .  . 

God!  how  he  understood! 
He'd  fiddled  for  their  livelihood — for  her, 
And  for  the  one  who  never  came  .  .  . 

Astir 

Upon  the  stage;  and  now  another  turn — 
The  old  star  guttered  out,  too  old  to  burn. 
And  he  remembered  she  had  liked  the  chap 
When  she'd  been  there  that  night .  He'd  seen  her  clap, 


LIVELIHOOD 

Laughing  so  merrily.    She  liked  it  all — 

The  razzle-dazzle  of  the  music-hall — 

And  laughing  faces  .  .  .  said  she  liked  to  see 

Hardworking  people  laughing  heartily 

After  the  day's  work.    She  liked  everything — 

His  playing,  even!    Snap  .  .  .  another  string — 

The  third! 

And  she'd  been  happy  in  that  place, 
Seeing  a  friendly  face  in  every  face. 
That  was  her  way — the  whole  world  was  her  friend. 
And  she'd  been  happy,  happy  to  the  end, 
As  happy  as  the  day  was  long 

And  he 
Fiddled  on,  dreaming  of  her  quietly. 


16 


THE  SWING 

'Twas  jolly,  swinging  through  the  air, 
With  young  Dick  Garland  sitting  there 
Tugging  the  rope  with  might  and  main, 
His  round  face  flushed,  his  arms  astrain, 
His  laughing  blue  eyes  shining  bright, 
As  they  went  swinging  through  the  light- 
As  they  went  swinging,  ever  higher 
Until  it  seemed  that  they  came  nigher 
At  every  swing  to  the  blue  sky — 
Until  it  seemed  that  by-and-by 
The  boat  would  suddenly  swing  through 
That  sunny  dazzle  of  clear  blue — p 
And  they,  together  .  .  .      ^-* 

Yesterday 

She'd  hardly  thought  she'ld  get  away: 
The  mistress  was  that  cross,  and  she 
Had  only  told  her  after  tea 
That  ere  she  left  she  must  set  to 
And  turn  the  parlour  out.  1  She  knew, 
Ay,  well  enough,  that  it  meant  more 
Than  two  hours'  work.    And  so  at  four 
She'd  risen  that  morn;  and  done  it  all 
Before  her  mistress  went  to  call 
And  batter  at  her  bedroom  door 
At  six  to  rouse  her.;  Such  a  floor, 
So  hard  to  sweep;  and  all  that  brass 
To  polish !  1  Any  other  lass 


LIVELIHOOD 

But  her  would  have  thrown  up  the  place, 
And  told  the  mistress  to  her  face  .  .  .    / 

But  how  could  she!    Her  money  meant 
So  much  to  them  at  home.^  'Twas  spent 
So  quickly,  though  so  hard  to  earn./ 
She'd  got  to  keep  her  place,  and  learn 
To  hold  her  tongue. ,.  Though  it  was  hard, 
The  little  house  in  Skinner's  Yard 
Must  be  kept  going.    She  would  rob 
The  bairns  if  she  should  lose  her  job, 
And  they'd  go  hungry  .  .  . 

Since  the  night 

They'd  brought  home  father,  cold  and  white, 
Upon  a  stretcher,  mother  and  she 
Had  had  to  struggle  ceaselessly 
To  keep  a  home  together  at  all. 
'Twas  lucky  she  was  big  and  tall 
And  such  a  strong  lass  for  fifteen. 
She  couldn't  think  where  they'ld  have  been 
If  she'd  not  earned  enough  to  feed 
And  help  to  keep  the  bairns  from  need — 
Those  five  young  hungry  mouths  .  .  .  / 

And  she 

For  one  long  day  beside  the  sea 
Was  having  a  rare  holiday  .  .  .  / f 

'Twas  queer  that  Dick  should  want  to  pay 
So  much  good  money,  hardly  earned, 
To  bring  her  with  him  .  .  . 


18 


THE   SWING 

How  it  burned, 

That  blazing  sun  in  the  blue  sky!  ^^ 
And  it  was  good  to  swing  so  high— 
So  high  into  the  burning  blue, 
Until  it  seemed  they 'Id  swing  right  through  . 

And  good  just  to  be  sitting  there 
And  watching  Dick  with  tumbled  hair 
And  his  red  necktie  floating  free 
Against  the  blue  of  sky  and  sea, 
As  up  and  down  and  up  and  down 
Beyond  the  low  roofs  of  the  town 
They  swung  and  swung  .  .  . 

And  he  was  glad 

To  pay  for  her,  the  foolish  lad,  ^^ 
And  happy  to  be  swinging  there 
With  her,  and  rushing  through  the  air, 
So  high  into  the  burning  blue 
It  seemed  that  they  would  swing  right  through 

'Twas  well  that  she  had  caught  the  train, 
She'd  had  to  run  with  might  and  main 
To  catch  it:  and  Dick  waiting  there 
With  tickets  ready  -x^ 

How  his  hair 

Shone  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  light 
Made  his  blue,  laughing  eyes  so  bright 
Whenever  he  looked  up  at  her  .  .  . 

She'ld  like  to  sit,  and  never  stir 
Again  out  of  that  easy  seat — .-/ 


LIVELIHOOD 

With  no  more  mats  to  shake  and  beat 
And  no  more  floors  to  sweep,  no  stairs 
To  scrub,  and  no  more  heavy  chairs 
To  move — for  she  was  sleepy  now  .  .  . 
Dick's  hair  had  fallen  over  his  brow 
Into  his  eyes.'  He  shook  them  free, 
And  laughed  to  her.  ^  'Twas  queer  that  he 
Should  think  it  worth  his  while  to  pay, 
And  give  her  such  a  holiday  ./.  . 
But  she  was  sleepy  now.    'Twas  rare, 
As  they  were  rushing  through  the  air 
To  see  Dick's  blue  eyes  shining  bright 
As  they  went  swinging  through  the  light, 
As  they  went  swinging  ever  higher 
Until  it  seemed  that  they  came  nigher 
At  every  swing  to  that  blue  sky — S 
Until  it  seemed  that  by-and-by 
Their  boat  would  suddenly  swing  through 
That  sunny  dazzle  of  clear  blue  .  .  .x 

If  she  could  swing  for  evermore 
With  Dick  above  that  golden  shore, 
With  no  more  parlour-floors  to  sweep — 
If  she  could  only  swing  and  sleep  .  .  . 
And  wake  to  see  Dick's  eyes  burn  bright, 
To  see  them  laughing  with  delight 
As  suddenly  they  swung  right  through 
That  sudden  dazzle  of  clear  blue — 
And  they  two,  sailing  on  together 
For  ever  through  that  shining  weather  t 


20 


THE  DROVE-ROAD 

'Twas  going  to  snow — 'twas  snowing!    Curse  his 

luck! 

And  fifteen  mile  to  travel — here  was  he 
With  nothing  but  an  empty  pipe  to  suck, 
And  half  a  flask  of  rum — but  that  would  be 
More  welcome  later  on.    He'd  had  a  drink 
Before  he  left;  and  that  would  keep  him  warm 
A  tidy  while:  and  'twould  be  good  to  think 
He'd  something  to  fall  back  on,  if  the  storm 
Should  come  to  much.    You  never  knew  with  snow. 
A  sup  of  rain  he  didn't  mind  at  all, 
But  snow  was  different  with  so  far  to  go — 
Full  fifteen  mile,  and  not  a  house  of  call. 
Ay,  snow  was  quite  another  story,  quite — 
Snow  on  these  fell-tops  with  a  north-east  wind 
Behind  it,  blowing  steadily  with  a  bite 
That  made  you  feel   that  you  were  stark  and 

skinned. 

And  these  poor  beasts — and  they  just  off  the  boat 

A  day  or  so,  and  hardly  used  to  land — 

Still  dizzy  with  the  sea,  their  wits  afloat. 

When  they  first  reached  the  dock,  they  scarce  could 

stand, 

They'd  been  so  joggled.    It's  gey  bad  to  cross, 
After  a  long  day's  jolting  in  the  train 
Thon  Irish  Channel,  always  pitch  and  toss— 

21 


LIVELIHOOD 

And  heads  or  tails,  not  much  for  them  to  gain! 
And  then  the  market,  and  the  throng  and  noise 
Of  yapping  dogs;  and  they  stung  mad  with  fear, 
Welted  with  switches  by  those  senseless  boys — 
He'ld  like  to  dust  their  jackets!    But  'twas  queer, 
A  beast's  life,  when  you  came  to  think  of  it 
From  start  to  finish — queerer,  ay,  a  lot 
Than  any  man's,  and  chancier  a  good  bit. 
With  his  ash-sapling  at  their  heels  they'd  got 
To  travel  before  night  those  fifteen  miles 
Of  hard  fell-road,  against  the  driving  snow, 
Half-blinded,  on  and  on.    He  thought  at  whiles 
'Twas  just  as  well  for  them  they  couldn't  know  .  .  . 

Though,  as  for  that,  'twas  little  that  he  knew 
Himself  what  was  in  store  for  him.    He  took 
Things  as  they  came.    'Twas  all  a  man  could  do; 
And  he'd  kept  going,  somehow,  by  hook  or  crook. 
And  here  he  was,  with  fifteen  mile  of  fell, 
And   snow,  and  .  .  .  God,   but  it  was  blowing 

stiff! 

And  no  tobacco.    Blest  if  he  could  tell 
Where  he  had  lost  it— but,  for  half  a  whiff 
He'ld  swop  the  very  jacket  off  his  back — 
Not  that  he'ld  miss  the  cobweb  of  old  shreds 
That  held  the  holes  together. 

Thon  Cheap- Jack 

Who'd  sold  it  him  had  said  it  was  Lord  Ted's, 
And  London  cut.    But  Teddy  had  grown  fat 
Since  he'd  been  made  an  alderman  .  .  .  His  bid? 
And  did  the  gentleman  not  want  a  hat 


22 


THE   DROVE-ROAD 

To  go  with  it,  a  topper?    If  he  did, 
Here  was  the  very  ... 

Hell,  but  it  was  cold: 

And  driving  dark  it  was — nigh  dark  as  night. 
He'ld  almost  think  he  must  be  getting  old, 
To  feel  the  wind  so.    And  long  out  of  sight 
The  beasts  had  trotted.    Well,  what  odds!    The 

way 
Ran  straight  for  ten  miles  on,   and  they'ld  go 

straight. 

They'ld  never  heed  a  by-road.    Many  a  day 
He'd  had  to  trudge  on,  trusting  them  to  fate, 
And  always  found  them  safe.    They  scamper  fast, 
But  in  the  end  a  man  could  walk  them  down. 
They're  showy  trotters;  but  they  cannot  last. 
He'ld  race  the  fastest  beast  for  half-a-crown 
On  a  day's  journey.    Beasts  were  never  made 
For  steady  travelling;  drive  them  twenty  mile, 
And  they  were  done;  while  he  was  not  afraid 
To  tackle  twice  that  distance  with  a  smile. 

But  not  a  day  like  this!    He'd  never  felt 

A  wind  with  such  an  edge.    'Twas  like  the  blade 

Of  the  rasper  in  the  pocket  of  his  belt 

He  kept  for  easy  shaving.    In  his  trade 

You'd  oft  to  make  your  toilet  under  a  dyke— 

And  he  was  always  one  for  a  clean  chin, 

And  carried  soap. 

He'd  never  felt  the  like- 
That  wind,  it  cut  clean  through  him  to  the  skin. 
He  might  be  mother-naked,  walking  bare, 

23 


LIVELIHOOD 

For  all  the  use  his  clothes  were,  with  the  snow 
Half-blinding  him,  and  clagging  to  his  hair, 
And  trickling  down  his  spine.    He'ld  like  to  know 
What  was  the  sense  of  pegging  steadily, 
Chilled  to  the  marrow,  after  a  daft  herd 
Of  draggled  beasts  he  couldn't  even  see! 

But  that  was  him  all  over!    Just  a  word, 
A  nod,  a  wink,  the  price  of  half-and-half — 
And  he'ld  be  setting  out  for  God-knows-where, 
With  no  more  notion  than  a  yearling  calf 
Where  he  would  find  himself  when  he  got  there. 
And  he'd  been  travelling  hard  on  sixty  year 
The  same  old  road,  the  same  old  giddy  gait; 
And  he'ld  be  walking,  for  a  pint  of  beer, 
Into  his  coffin,  one  day,  soon  or  late — 
But  not  with  such  a  tempest  in  his  teeth, 
Half -blinded  and  half-do  thered,  that  he  hoped! 
He'd  met  a  sight  of  weather  on  the  heath, 
But  this  beat  all. 

'Twas  worse  than  when  he'd  groped 
His  way  that  evening  down  the  Mallerstang — 
Thon  was  a  blizzard,  thon — and  he  was  done, 
And  almost  dropping  when  he  came  a  bang 
Against  a  house — slap-bang,  and  like  to  stun! — 
Though  that  just  saved  his  senses — and  right  there 
He  saw  a  lighted  window  he'd  not  seen, 
Although  he'd  nearly  staggered  through  its  glare 
Into  a  goodwife's  kitchen,  where  she'd  been 
Baking  hot  griddlecakes  upon  the  peat. 
And  he  could  taste  them  now,  and  feel  the  glow 

24 


THE  DROVE-ROAD 

Of  steady,  aching,  tingly,  drowsy  heat, 

As  he  sat  there  and  let  the  caking  snow 

Melt  off  his  boots,  staining  the  sanded  floor. 

And   that   brown  jug  she   took  down  from  the 

shelf— 

And  every  time  he'd  finished,  fetching  more, 
And  piping:  "Now  reach  up,  and  help  yourself!" 
She  was  a  wonder,  thon,  the  gay  old  wife — 
But  no  such  luck  this  journey.    Things  like  that 
Could  hardly  happen  every  day  of  life, 
Or  no  one  would  be  dying,  but  the  fat 
And  oily  undertakers,  starved  to  death 
For  want  of  custom  .  .  .  Hell!  but  he  would  soon 
Be  giving  them  a  job  ...  It  caught  your  breath, 
That  throttling  wind.    And  it  was  not  yet  noon; 
And  he'ld  be  travelling  through  it  until  dark. 
Dark!     'Twas  already  dark,  and  might  be  night 
For  all  that  he  could  see  .  .  . 

And  not  a  spark 

Of  comfort  for  him!    Just  to  strike  a  light, 
And  press  the  kindling  shag  down  in  the  bowl, 
Keeping  the  flame  well-shielded  by  his  hand, 
And  puff,  and  puff!    He'ld  give  his  very  soul 
For  half-a-pipe.    He  couldn't  understand 
How  he  had  come  to  lose  it.    He'd  the  rum — 
Ay,  that  was  safe  enough:  but  it  would  keep 
Awhile,  you  never  knew  what  chance  might  come 
In  such  a  storm  .  .  . 

If  he  could  only  sleep  .  .  . 
If  he  could  only  sleep  .  .  .  That  rustling  sound 
Of  drifting  snow,  it  made  him  sleepy-like — 

25 


LIVELIHOOD 

Drowsy  and  dizzy,  dithering  round  and  round  .  .  . 

If  he  could  only  curl  up  under  a  dyke, 

And  sleep  and  sleep  ...  It  dazzled  him,   that 
white, 

Drifting    and    drifting,    round    and    round    and 
round  .  .  . 

Just    half-a-moment's    snooze  .  .  .  He'ld    be    all 
right. 

It  made  his  head  quite  dizzy,  that  dry  sound 

Of  rustling  snow.    It  made  his  head  go  round — 

That  rustling  in  his  ears  .  .  .  and  drifting,  drift- 
ing ... 

If  he  could  only  sleep  .  .  .  he  would  sleep  sound  .  .  . 

God,  he  was  nearly  gone! 

The  storm  was  lifting; 

And  he'd  run  into  something  soft  and  warm — 

Slap  into  his  own  beasts,  and  never  knew. 

Huddled  they  were,  bamboozled  by  the  storm — 

And  little  wonder  either,  when  it  blew 

A  blasted  blizzard.    Still,  they'd  got  to  go. 

They  couldn't  stand  there  snoozing  until  night. 

But  they  were  sniffing  something  in  the  snow. 
'Twas  that  had  stopped  them,  something  big  and 

white — 

A  bundle — nay,  a  woman  .  .  .  and  she  slept. 
But  it  was  death  to  sleep. 

He'd  nearly  dropt 

Asleep  himself.    'Twas  well  that  he  had  kept 
That  rum;  and  lucky  that  the  beasts  had  stopt. 


26 


THE  DROVE-ROAD 


Ay,  it  was  well  that  he  had  kept  the  rum. 
He  liked  his  drink:  but  he  had  never  cared 
For  soaking  by  himself,  and  sitting  mum. 
Even  the  best  rum  tasted  better,  shared. 


27 


THE  ROCKLIGHT 

Ay,  he  must  keep  his  mind  clear — must  not  think 

Of  those  two  lying  dead,  or  he'ld  go  mad. 

The  glitter  on  the  lenses  made  him  blink; 

The  brass  glared  speckless:  work  was  all  he  had 

To  keep  his  mind  clear.    He  must  keep  it  clear 

And  free  of  fancies,  now  that  there  was  none, 

None  left  but  him  to  light  the  lantern — near 

On  fourteen  hours  yet  till  that  blazing  sun 

Should  drop  into  that  quiet  oily  sea, 

And  he  must  light  .  .  .  though  it  was  not  his  turn: 

'Twas  Jacob's, — Jacob,  lying  quietly 

Upon  his  bed  .  .  .  And  yet  the  light  would  burn 

And  flash  across  the  darkness  just  as  though 

Nothing  had  happened,  white  and  innocent, 

As  if  Jake's  hand  had  lit  it.    None  would  know, 

No  seaman  steering  by  it,  what  it  meant 

To  him,  since  he'd  seen  Jacob  .  .  . 

But  that  way 

Lay  madness.    He,  at  least,  must  keep  his  wits; 
Or  there'ld  be  none  to  tell  why  those  two  lay  .  .  . 
He  must  keep  working,  or  he'ld  go  to  bits. 

Ere  sunset,  he  must  wind  the  lantern  up. 
He'ld  like  to  wind  it  now — but  'twould  go  round, 
And  he'ld  be  fancying  .  .  .  Neither  bite  nor  sup 
He'd  touched  this  morning;  and  the  clicking  sound 
Would  set  his  light  head  fancying  .  .  .  Jacob  wound 

28 


THE  ROCKLIGHT 

So  madly  that  last  time,  before  .  .  .  But  he, 
He  mustn't  think  of  Jacob.    He  was  bound, 
In  duty  bound,  to  keep  his  own  wits  free 
And  clear  of  fancies. 

He  would  think  of  home. 
That  thought  would  keep  him  whole,  when  all  else 

failed — 

The  green  door;  and  the  doorstep,  white  as  foam; 
The  window  that  blazed  bright  the  night  he  sailed 
Out  of  the  moonlit  harbour, — clean  and  gay 
'Twould  shine  this  morning  in  the  sun,  with  white 
Dimity  curtains,  and  a  grand  display 
Of  red  geraniums,  glowing  in  the  light. 
He  always  liked  geraniums:  such  a  red — 
It  put  a  heart  in  you.    His  mother,  too, 
She  liked  .  .  . 

And  she'ld  be  lying  still  in  bed, 
And  never  dreaming!    If  she  only  knew! 
But  he,  .  .  .  he  mustn't  think  of  them  just  now — 
Must  keep  off  fancies  .  .  . 

She'ld  be  lying  there, 

Sleeping  so  quietly — her  smooth  white  brow 
So  calm  beneath  the  wisps  of  silver  hair 
Slipped  out  beneath  her  mutch-frills.    She  had  pride 
In  those  fine  caps,  and  ironed  them  herself. 
The  very  morning  that  his  father'd  died, 
Drowned  in  the  harbour,  turning  t&  the  shelf, 
She  took  her  iron  down,  without  a  word, 
And  ironed,  with  her  husband  lying  dead  .  .  . 
As  they  were  lying  now  ...    He  never  heard 
Her  speak,  or  saw  her  look  towards  the  bed. 
29 


LIVELIHOOD 

She  ironed,  ironed.    He  had  thought  it  queer — 
The  little  shivering  lad  perched  in  his  chair, 
And  hungry — though  he  dared  not  speak  for  fear 
His  father'ld  wake,  and  with  wet  streaming  hair 
Would  rise  up  from  the  bed  .  .  . 

He'd  thought  it  strange 
Then,  but  he  understood  now,  understood. 
You'd  got  to  work,  or  let  your  fancies  range; 
And  fancies  played  the  devil  when  they  could. 
They  got  the  upper  hand,  if  you  loosed  grip 
A  moment.    Iron  frills,  or  polish  brass 
To  keep  a  hold  upon  yourself,  not  slip 
As  Jacob  slipt  .  .  . 

A  very  burning-glass 

Those  lenses  were.    He'ld  have  to  drop  off  soon, 
And  find  another  job  to  fill  the  morn, 
And  keep  him  going  through  the  afternoon— 
And  it  was  not  yet  five!  .  .  . 

Ay,  he  was  born 

In  the  very  bed  where  still  his  mother  slept, 
And  where  his  father'd  lain — a  cupboard  bed 
Let  in  the  wall,  more  like  a  bunk,  and  kept 
Decent  with  curtains  drawn  from  foot  to  head 
By  day,  though  why— but  'twas  the  women's  way: 
They  always  liked  things  tidy.    They  were  right — 
Better  to  keep  things  tidy  through  the  day, 
Or  there  would  be  the  devil's  mess  by  night. 
He  liked  things  shipshape,  too,  himself.    He  took 
After  his  mother  in  more  ways  than  one. 


THE  ROCKLIGHT 

He'ld  say  this  for  her — she  could  never  brook 
A  sloven;  and  she'd  made  a  tidy  son. 

'Twas  well  for  him  that  he  was  tidy,  now 

That  he  was  left;  or  how'ld  he  ever  keep 

His  thoughts  in  hand  .  .  .    The  Lord  alone  knew 

how 
He'ld  keep  them  tidy,  till  .  .  . 

Yet,  she  could  sleep: 

And  he  was  glad,  ay,  glad  that  she  slept  sound. 
It  did  him  good,  to  think  of  her  so  still. 
It  kept  his  thoughts  from  running  round  and  round 
Like  Jacob  in  the  lighted  lantern,  till  .  .  . 
God!    They  were  breaking  loose!    He  must  keep 

hold  .  .  . 

On  one  side,  "Albert  Edward,  Prince  of  Wales," 

Framed  in  cut  cork,  painted  to  look  like  gold — 

On  the  other  a  red  frigate,  with  white  sails 

Bellying,  and  a  blue  pennon  fluttering  free, 

Upon  a  sea  dead  calm.    He  couldn't  think, 

As  a  wee  lad,  how  ever  this  could  be. 

And  when  he'd  asked,  his  father  with  a  wink 

Had  only  answered  laughing:  Little  chaps 

Might  think  they  knew  a  lot,  and  had  sharp  eyes. 

But  only  pigs  could  see  the  wind.    Perhaps 

The  painter'd  no  pig  by  him  to  advise. 

That  was  his  father's  way:  he'ld  always  jest, 
And  chuckle  in  his  beard,  with  eyes  half-shut 


LIVELIHOOD 

And  twinkling  .  .  .    Strange  to  think  of  them  at 

rest 

And  lightless,  those  blue  eyes,  beneath  that  cut 
Where  the  jagged  rock  had  gashed  his  brow— the 

day 

His  wife  kept  ironing  those  snowy  frills, 
To  keep  herself  from  thinking  how  he  lay, 
And  wouldn't  jest  again.    It's  that  that  kills— 
The  thinking  over  .  .  . 

Jacob  jested,  too: 

He'd  always  some  new  game,  was  full  of  chaff. 
The  very  morn  before  the  lantern  drew  .  .  . 
Yesterday  morn  that  was,  he  heard  him  laugh  .  .  . 

Yesterday  morn!    And  was  it  just  last  night 
He'd  wakened,  startled;  and  run  out,  to  find 
Jacob  within  the  lantern,  round  the  light 
Fluttering  like  a  moth,  naked  and  blind 
And     laughing  .  .  .  Peter     staring,     turned     to 

stone  .  .  . 
The  struggle  .  .  .  Peter  killed  .  .  . 

And  he  must  keep 

His  mind  clear  at  all  costs,  himself,  alone 
On  that  grey  naked  rock  of  the  great  deep, 
Full  forty  mile  from  shore — where  there  were  men 
Alive  and  breathing  at  this  moment — ay, 
Men  who  were  deep  in  slumber  even  then, 
And  yet  would  waken  and  look  on  the  sky. 

He  must  keep  his  mind  clear,  to  light  the  lamp 
Ere  sunset:  ay,  and  clear  the  long  night  through 

32 


THE  ROCKLIGHT 

To  tell  how  they  had  died.    He  mustn't  scamp 
The  truth — and  yet  'twas  little  that  he  knew  .  .  . 
What  had  come  over  Jacob  in  the  night 
To  send  him  mad  and  stripping  himself  bare  .  .  . 
And  how  he'd  ever  climbed  into  the  light — 
And  it  revolving  .  .  .  and  the  heat  and  glare! 
No  wonder  he'd  gone  blind — the  lenses  burning 
And  blazing  round  him;  and  in  each  he'ld  see 
A  little  naked  self  .  .  .  and  turning,  turning, 
Till,  blinded,  scorched,  and  laughing  crazily, 
He'd  dropped:  and  Peter  .  .  .  Peter  might  have 

known 

The  truth,  if  he  had  lived  to  tell  the  tale— 
But     Peter'd     tripped  .  .  .  and     he     was     left 

alone  .  .  . 

Just  thirty  hours  till  he  should  see  the  sail 
Bringing  them  food  and  letters — food  for  them; 
Letters  from  home  for  them  .  .  .  and  here  was  he 
Shuddering  like  a  boat  from  stern  to  stem 
When  a  wave  takes  it  broadside  suddenly. 
He  must  keep  his  mind  clear  .  .  . 

His  mother  lay 

Peacefully  slumbering.    And  she,  poor  soul, 
Had  kept  her  mind  clear,  ironing  that  day — 
Had  kept  her  wits  about  her,  sound  and  whole — 
And  for  his  sake.    Ay,  where  would  he  have  been, 
If  she  had  let  her  fancies  have  their  way 
That  morning,  having  seen  what  she  had  seen! 
He'd  thought  it  queer  .  .  .     But  it  was  no  child's 
play 

33 


LIVELIHOOD 

Keeping  the  upper  hand  of  your  own  wits. 

He  knew  that  now.    If  only  for  her  sake. 

He  mustn't  let  his  fancies  champ  their  bits 

Until  they  foamed  ...    He  must  jam  on  the  brake 

Or  he  ... 

He  must  think  how  his  mother  slept; 
How  soon  she  would  be  getting  out  of  bed; 
Would  dress;  and  breakfast  by  the  window,  kept 
So  lively  with  geraniums  blazing  red; 
Would  open  the  green  door,  and  wash  the  stone, 
Foam-white  enough  already:  then,  maybe, 
She'ld  take  her  iron  down,  and,  all  alone, 
Would  iron,  iron,  iron  steadily — 
Keeping  her  fancies  quiet,  till  he  came  .  .  . 

To-morrow,  he'ld  be  home:  he'ld  see  the  white 
Welcoming  threshold,  and  the  window's  flame, 
And  her  grave  eyes  kindling  with  kindly  light. 


34 


THE  PLOUGH 

He  sniffed  the  clean  and  eager  smell 

Of  crushed  wild  garlic,  as  he  thrust 

Beneath  the  sallows:  and  a  spell 

He  stood  there  munching  a  thick  crust — 

The  fresh  tang  giving  keener  zest 

To  bread  and  cheese — and  watched  a  pair 

Of  wagtails  preening  wing  and  breast, 

Then  running — flirting  tails  in  air, 

And  pied  plumes  sleeked  to  silky  sheen — 

Chasing  each  other  in  and  out 

The  wet  wild  garlic's  white  and  green. 

And  then  remembering,  with  a  shout, 
And  rattle  whirring,  he  ran  back 
Again  into  the  Fair  Maid's  Mead, 
To  scare  the  rascal  thieves  and  black 
That  flocked  from  far  and  near  to  feed 
Upon  the  sprouting  grain.    As  one 
They  rose  with  clapping  rustling  wings — 
Rooks,  starlings,  pigeons,  in  the  sun 
Circling  about  him  in  wide  rings, 
And  plovers  hovering  over  him 
In  mazy,  interweaving  flight — 
Until  it  made  his  young  wits  swim 
To  see  them  up  against  the  light, 
A  dazzling  dance  of  black  and  white 
Against  the  clear  blue  April  sky — 
Wings  on  wings  in  flashing  flight 
Swooping  low  and  soaring  high — 

35 


LIVELIHOOD 

Swooping,  soaring,  fluttering,  flapping, 

Tossing,  tumbling,  swerving,  dipping, 

Chattering,  cawing,  creaking,  clapping, 

Till  he  felt  his  senses  slipping— 

And  gripped  his  corncrake  rattle  tight, 

And  flourished  it  above  his  head 

Till  every  bird  was  out  of  sight: 

And  laughed,  when  all  had  flown  and  fled, 

To  think  that  he,  and  all  alone, 

Could  put  so  many  thieves  to  rout. 

Then  sitting  down  upon  a  stone 
He  wondered  if  the  school  were  out — 
The  school  where,  only  yesterday, 
He'd  sat  at  work  among  his  mates — 
At  work  that  now  seemed  children's  play, 
With  pens  and  pencils,  books  and  slates — 
Although  he'd  liked  it  well  enough, 
The  hum  and  scuffling  of  the  school, 
And  hadn't  cared  when  Grim-and-Gruff 
Would  call  him  dunderhead  and  fool. 

And  he  could  see  them  sitting  there — 
His  class-mates,  in  the  lime-washed  room, 
With  fingers  inked  and  towzled  hair — 
Bill  Baxter  with  red  cheeks  abloom, 
And  bright  black  eyes;  and  Ginger  Jim 
With  freckled  face  and  solemn  look, 
Who'ld  wink  a  pale  blue  eye  at  him, 
Then  sit  intent  upon  his  book, 
While,  caught  a-giggle,  he  was  caned. 

36 


THE  PLOUGH 

He'd  liked  that  room,  he'd  liked  it  all— 
The  window  steaming  when  it  rained; 
The  sunlight  dancing  on  the  wall 
Among  the  glossy  charts  and  maps; 
The  blotchy  stain  beside  the  clock 
That  only  he  of  all  the  chaps 
Knew  for  a  chart  of  Dead  Man's  Rock 
That  lies  in  Tiger  Island  Bay — 
The  reef  on  which  the  schooners  split 
And  founder,  that  would  bear  away 
The  treasure-chest  of  Cut-Throat-Kit, 
That's  buried  under  Black  Bill's  bones 
Beneath  the  purple  pepper- tree  .  .  . 
A  trail  of  clean-sucked  cherry-stones, 
Which  you  must  follow  carefully, 
Across  the  dunes  of  yellow  sand 
Leads  winding  upward  from  the  beach 
Till,  with  a  pistol  in  each  hand, 
And  cutlass  'twixt  your  teeth,  you  reach  .  . 

Plumping  their  fat  crops  peacefully 

Were  plovers,  pigeons,  starlings,  rooks, 

Feeding  on  every  side  while  he 

Was  in  the  land  of  storybooks. 

He  raised  his  rattle  with  a  shout 

And  scattered  them  with  yell  and  crake  .  . 

A  man  must  mind  what  he's  about 

And  keep  his  silly  wits  awake, 

Not  go  woolgathering,  if  he'ld  earn 

His  wage.    And  soon,  no  schoolboy  now, 

He'ld  take  on  a  man's  job,  and  learn 

37 


LIVELIHOOD 

To  build  a  rick,  and  drive  the  plough, 
Like  father  .  .  . 

Up  against  the  sky 
Beyond  the  spinney  and  the  stream, 
With  easy  stride  and  steady  eye 
He  saw  his  father  drive  his  team, 
Turning  the  red  marl  gleaming  wet 
Into  long  furrows  clean  and  true. 
And  dreaming  there,  he  longed  to  set 
His  young  hand  to  the  ploughshare  too. 


THE  OLD  PIPER 

With  ears  undulled  of  age,  all  night  he  heard 
The  April  singing  of  the  Otterburn. 
His  wife  slept  quietly  and  never  stirred, 
Though  he  was  restless  and  must  toss  and  turn — 
But  she  kept  going  all  the  day,  while  he 
Was  just  a  useless  bundle  in  a  chair, 
And  couldn't  do  a  hand's  turn — seventy-three, 
And  crippled  with  rheumatics  .  .  . 

It  was  rare, 

Hearing  the  curlew  piping  in  the  dark! 
'Twas  queer  he'd  got  his  hearing  still  so  keen. 
He'ld  be  so  bothered  if  he  couldn't  hark 
To  curlew  piping,  shrill  and  clear  and  clean — 
Ay,  clean,  that  note! 

His  piping  days  were  done, 
His  fingers  numb  and  stiff.    And  by  the  peat 
All  winter,  or  all  summer  in  the  sun, 
He'ld  sit  beside  the  threshold,  in  his  seat, 
Day-long,  and  listen  to  the  Otterburn 
That  sang  each  day  and  night  a  different  tune. 
It  knew  more  airs  than  he  could  ever  learn 
Upon  the  small-pipes.    January  to  June, 
And  June  to  January,  every  hour 
It  changed  its  music.    Now  'twas  shrilling  clear 
In  a  high  tinkling  treble  with  a  power 
Of  mellow  undertones.    And  to  his  ear 
Even  the  spates  of  winter  over  stones 

39 


LIVELIHOOD 

Made  no  dull  tuneless  thundering;  he  heard 
No  single  roar,  but  half  a  hundred  tones 
Eddying  and  swirling;  blending,  yet  unblurred; 
No  dull-edged  note,  but  each  one  razor-keen — 
Though  supple  as  the  sword-blades  interlaced 
Over  the  morris-dancers'  heads — and  clean! 
But,  nay,  there  was  no  word  for  it.    'Twas  waste 
Of  breath  to  try  and  put  the  thing  in  words, 
Though  on  his  pipes  he'ld  get  the  sense  of  it, 
The  feel — ay,  even  of  the  calls  of  birds 
He'ld  get  some  notion,  though  low-toned  a  bit — 
His  humming  drone  had  not  that  quality 
Of  clean-cut  piping.    Any  shepherd  lad 
Upon  his  penny-whistle  easily 
Could  mimic  the  mere  notes.    And  yet  he  had 
A  gift  of  feeling,  somehow  .  .  .  He  must  try 
To-morrow  if  he  couldn't  tune  his  pipes, 
Must  get  his  wife  to  strap  them  carefully  .  .  . 
Hark,  a  new  note  among  the  birds — a  snipe's — 
A  small-pipe's  note!  .  .  . 

Drowsing,  he  did  not  wake 
Until  his  wife  was  stirring. 

Nor  till  noon 

He  told  her  that  he'd  half-a-mind  to  take 
His  pipes  and  see  if  he  could  turn  a  tune 
If  she  would  fetch  them.    And  regretfully 
She  brought  the  pipes  and  strapped  them  on  and  set 
The  bellows  under  his  arm,  and  patiently 
She  held  the  reeds  to  his  numb  fingers.    Yet 
She  knew  'twas  worse  than  useless.     Work  and 
years 

40 


THE   OLD  PIPER 

Had  dulled  that  lively  touch:  each  joint  was  stiff 
And  swollen  with  rheumatics  .  .  . 

Slowly  tears 
Ran  down  his  weathered  cheeks  .  .  . 

And  then  a  whiff 

Of  peat-reek  filled  his  nostrils:  and  quite  still 
He  sat  remembering.    Memory  was  kind 
And  stript  age  off  him. 

And  along  the  hill 

By  Golden  Pots  he  strove  against  the  wind — 
In  all  his  days  he  never  again  had  known 
A  wind  like  thon — on  that  November  day. 
For  every  step  that  he  took  forward,  blown 
Half-a-step  backward,  slowly  he  made  way 
Against  it,  buffeted  and  battered  numb, 
Chilled  to  the  marrow,  till  he  reached  his  door, 
To  find  Jack  Dodd,  the  pitman  piper,  come 
To  play  a  contest  with  him  .  .  . 

Nevermore 
There'ld  be  such  piping! 

Ay,  Jack  Dodd  had  heard 
That  he  could  play — that  up  among  the  hills 
There  was  a  lad  could  pipe  like  any  bird, 
With  half-a-hundred  fancy  turns  and  trills, 
And  give  a  lead  even  to  Jack  himself, 
Jack  Dodd,  the  pitmen's  champion! 

After  tea 
When  they  had  smoked  a  while,  down  from  the 

shelf 

He'd  reached  his  own  small-pipes;  and  speedily 
They  two  were  at  it,  playing,  tune  for  tune, 

41 


LIVELIHOOD 

Against  each  other  all  the  winter's  night, 
And  all  next  morning  till  the  stroke  of  noon, 
Piping  out  bravely  all  their  hearts'  delight. 

He  still  could  see  Jack,  sitting  there,  so  lean, 
Long-backed,  broad-shouldered,  stooping  and  white- 
faced 
With  cropped  black  head,  and  black  eyes  burning 

keen; 

Tight-lipped,  yet  smiling  gravely:  round  his  waist 
His  small-pipes  strapped,  the  bellows  'neath  his  arm, 
His  nimble  fingers  lively  at  the  reeds, — 
His  body  swaying  to  the  lilting  charm 
Of  his  own  magic  piping,  till  great  beads 
Of  sweat  were  glistening  on  his  low,  white  brow. 

And  he  himself,  a  herd-lad,  yellow-haired, 
With  wide  eyes  even  bluer  then  than  now, 
Who  sat  bolt-upright  in  his  chair  and  stared 
Before  him  at  the  steady  glowing  peat 
As  though  each  note  he  played  he  caught  in  flight 
From  the  loud  wind,  and  in  the  quivering  heat 
Could  see  it  dancing  to  its  own  delight. 

All  night  the  rafters  hummed  with  piping  airs, 
And  candle  after  candle  guttered  out; 
But  not  a  footstep  climbed  the  creaking  stairs 
To  the  dark  bedrooms.    Turn  and  turn  about, 
They  piped  or  listened;  while  the  wind  without 
Roared  round  the  steading,  battering  at  the  door 
As  though  to  burst  it  wide;  then  with  a  shout 
Swept  on  across  the  pitchy  leagues  of  moor. 

42 


THE   OLD  PIPER 

Pitman  and  shepherd  piping  turn  for  turn, 

The  airs  they  loved,  till  to  the  melody 

Their  pulses  beat;  and  their  rapt  eyes  would  burn 

Thrilled  with  the  sight  that  each  most  loved  to 

see — 

The  pitman,  gazing  down  a  gallery 
Of  glittering  black  coal,  an  endless  seam: 
And  through  his  piping  stole  the  mystery 
Of  subterranean  waters,  and  of  dream 
Corridors  dwindling  everlastingly. 

The  shepherd,  from  the  top  of  Windy  Gile 

Looking  o'er  range  on  range  of  glowing  hills, 

A  world  beneath  him,  stretching,  mile  on  mile, 

Brown  bent  and  heather,  laced  by  flashing  rills, — 

His  body  flooded  with  the  light  that  fills 

The  veins  with  running  gold.    And  April  light 

And  wind,  and  all  the  melody  that  spills 

From  tumbling  waters,  thrilled  his  pipes  that  night. 

Ay,  thon  was  playing,  thon!    And  nevermore 
The  world  would  hear  such  piping.    Jack  was  dead, 
And  he,  so  old  and  broken. 

By  the  door 

All  day  he  sat  remembering;  and  in  bed 
He  lay  beside  his  sleeping  wife  all  night, 
Too  spent,  too  weary,  even  to  toss  and  turn. 
Dawn  found  him  lying,  strangely  cold  and  white, 
As  though  still  listening  to  the  Otterburn. 


43 


THE  NEWS 

The  buzzer  boomed,  and  instantly  the  clang 
Of  hammers  dropt,  just  as  the  fendered  bow 
Bumped  with  soft  splash  against  the  wharf,- 

though  now 

Again  within  the  Yard  a  hammer  rang — 
A  solitary  hammer  striking  steel 
Somewhere  aloft — and  strangely,  stridently 
Echoed  as  though  it  struck  the  steely  sky 
The  low,  cold,  steely  sky. 

She  seemed  to  feel 

That  hammer  in  her  heart — blow  after  blow 
In  a  strange  clanging  hollow  seemed  to  strike 
Monotonous,  unrelenting,  cruel-like — 
Her  heart  that  such  a  little  while  ago 
Had  been  so  full,  so  happy  with  its  news 
Scarce  uttered  even  to  itself. 

It  stopt, 

That  dreadful  hammer.    And  the  silence  dropt 
Again  a  moment.    Then  a  clatter  of  shoes 
And  murmur  of  voices  as  the  men  trooped  out: 
And  as  each  wife  with  basket  and  hot  can 
Hurried  towards  the  gate  to  meet  her  man, 
She  too  ran  forward,  and  then  stood  in  doubt 
Because  among  them  all  she  could  not  see 
The  face  that  usually  was  first  of  all 
To  meet  her  eyes. 

44 


THE   NEWS 

Against  the  grimy  wall 
That  towered  black  above  her  to  the  sky, 
With  trembling  knuckles  to  the  cold  stone  pressed 
Till  the  grit  seemed  to  cut  into  the  bone, 
And  her  stretched  arm  to  shake  the  solid  stone, 
She    stood,    and    strove    to    calm    her    troubled 

breast — 

Her  breast,  whose  trouble  of  strange  happiness 
So  sweet  and  so  miraculous,  as  she 
Had  stood  among  the  chattering  company 
Upon  the  ferry-boat,  to  strange  distress 
Was  changed.    An  unknown  terror  seemed  to  lie 
For  her,  behind  that  wall,  so  cold  and  hard 
And  black  above  her,  in  the  unseen  Yard, 
Dreadfully  quiet  now.    Then  with  a  sigh 
Of  glad  relief  she  ran  towards  the  gate 
As  he  came  slowly  out,  the  last  of  all. 

The  terror  of  the  hammer  and  the  wall 
Fell  from  her  as,  a  woman  to  her  mate, 
She  moved  with  happy  heart  and  smile  of  greet- 
ing— 

A  young  and  happy  wife  whose  only  thought 
Was  whether  he  would  like  the  food  she'd  brought — 
Whose   one  desire,    to  watch  her  husband   eat- 
ing. 

With  a  grave  smile  he  took  his  bait  from  her, 
And  then  without  a  word  they  moved  away 
To  where  some  grimy  baulks  of  timber  lay 
Beside  the  river,  and  'twas  quieter 

45 


LIVELIHOOD 

Than  in  the  crowd  of  munching,  squatting  men 
And  chattering  wives  and  children.    As  he  eat 
With  absent  eyes  upon  the  river  set, 
She  chattered,  too,  a  little  now  and  then 
Of  household  happenings:  and  then  silently 
They  sat  and  watched  the  grimy-flowing  stream, 
Dazed  by  the  stunning  din  of  hissing  steam 
Escaping  from  an  anchored  boat  hard-by, 
Each  busy  with  their  own  thoughts,  who  till  now 
Had  shared  each  thought,  each  feeling,  speaking 

out 

Easily,  eagerly,  without  a  doubt, 
As  happy  innocent  children,  anyhow, 
The  innermost  secrets  of  their  wedded  life. 
So  as  the  dinner  hour  went  swiftly  by 
They  sat  there  for  the  first  time,  troubled,  shy — 
A  silent  husband  and  a  silent  wife. 

But  she  was  only  troubled  by  excess 

Of  happiness ;  and  as  she  watched  the  stream, 

She  looked  upon  her  life  as  in  a  dream, 

Recalling  all  its  tale  of  happiness 

Unbroken  and  unshadowed  since  she'd  met 

Her  man  the  first  time,  eighteen  months  ago  .  .  . 

A  keen  blue  day  with  sudden  flaws  of  snow 
And  sudden  sunshine,  when  she  first  had  set 
Her  wondering  eyes  upon  him — gaily  clad 
For  football  in  a  jersey  green  and  red, 
Knees  bare  beneath  white  shorts,  his  curly  head 
Wind-blown  and  wet, — and  knew  him  for  her  lad. 

46 


THE  NEWS 

He  strode  towards  her  down  the  windy  street — 
The  wet  grey  pavements  flashing  sudden  gold, 
And  gold  the  unending  coils  of  smoke  that  rolled 
Unceasingly  overhead,  fired  by  a  fleet 
Wild  glint  of  glancing  sunlight.    On  he  came 
Beside  her  brother — still  a  raw  uncouth 
Young  hobbledehoy — a  strapping  mettled  youth 
In  the  first  pride  of  manhood,  that  wild  flame 
Touching  his  hair  to  fire,  his  cheeks  aglow 
With  the  sharp  stinging  wind,  his  arms  aswing: 
And  as  she  watched,  she  felt  the  tingling  sting 
Of  flying  flakes,  and  in  a  whirl  of  snow 
A  moment  he  was  hidden  from  her  sight. 
It  passed,  and  then  before  she  was  aware, 
With  white  flakes  powdering  his  ruddy  hair 
He  stood  before  her,  laughing  in  the  light, 
In  all  his  bravery  of  red  and  green 
Snow-sprinkled;   and   she   laughed,    too.    In   the 

sun 
They  laughed:  and  in  that  laughter  they  were  one. 

Now  as  with  kindled  eyes  on  the  unseen 

Grey  river  she  sat  gazing,  she  again 

Lived  through  that  moment  in  a  golden  dream  ... 

And  then  quite  suddenly  she  saw  the  stream 

Distinct  in  its  cold  grimy  flowing — then 

The  present  with  its  deeper  happiness 

Thrilled   her     afresh — this   wonder   strange   and 

new — 

This  dream  in  her  young  body  coming  true, 
Incredible,  yet  certain  none-the-less — 

47 


LIVELIHOOD 

This  news,  scarce  broken  to  herself,  that  she 
Must  break  to  him.    She  longed  to  see  his  eyes 
Kindle  to  hear  it,  happy  with  surprise 
When  she  should  break  it  to  him  presently. 

But  she  must  wait  a  while  yet.    Still  too  strange, 
Too  wonderful  for  words,  she  could  not  share 
Even  with  him  her  secret.    He  sat  there 
So  quietly,  little  dreaming  of  the  change 
That  had  come  over  her — but  when  he  knew! 
For  he  was  always  one  for  bairns,  was  John, 
And  this  would  be  his  own,  their  own.    There  shone 
A  strange  new  light  on  all  since  this  was  true, 
All,  all  seemed  strange,  the  river  and  the  shore, 
The  barges  and  the  wharves  with  timber  piled, 
And  all  her  world  familiar  from  a  child, 
Was  as  a  world  she'd  never  seen  before. 

And  he,  too,  sat  with  eyes  upon  the  stream 
Remembering  that  day  when  first  the  light 
Of  her  young  eyes  with  laughter  sparkling  bright 
Kindled  to  his;  and  as  he  caught  the  gleam 
The  life  within  him  quickened  suddenly 
To  fire,  and  in  a  world  of  golden  laughter 
They  stood  alone  together:  and  then  after, 
When  he  was  playing  with  his  mates  and  he 
Hurtled  headlong  towards  the  goal,  he  knew 
Her  eyes  were  on  him;  and  for  her  alone, 
Who  had  the  merriest  eyes  he'd  ever  known, 
He  played  that  afternoon.    Though  until  then 
He'd  only  played  to  please  himself,  somehow 
She  seemed  to  have  a  hold  upon  him,  now. 

48 


THE  NEWS 

No  longer  a  boy,  a  man  among  grown  men, 
He'ld  never  have  a  thought  apart  from  her, 
From  her,  his  mate  .  .  . 

And  then  that  golden  night 
When  in  a  whirl  of  melody  and  light, 
Her  merry  brown  eyes  flashing  merrier, 
They  rode  together  in  a  gilded  car 
That  seemed  to  roll  for  ever  round  and  round 
In  a  blind  blaze  of  light  and  blare  of  sound, 
For  ever  and  for  ever,  till  afar 
It  seemed  to  bear  them  from  the  surging  throng 
Of  lads  and  lasses  happy  in  release 
From  the  week's  work  in  yards  and  factories — 
For  ever  through  a  land  of  light  and  song 
While  they  sat,  rapt  in  silence,  hand  in  hand, 
And  looked  into  each  other's  merry  eyes, 
They  two,  together,  whirled  through  Paradise, 
A  golden  glittering,  unearthly  land, 
A  land  where  light  and  melody  were  one, 
And  melody  and  light,  a  golden  fire 
That  ran  through  their  young  bodies,  and  desire, 
A  golden  music  streaming  from  the  sun, 
Filling  their  veins  with  golden  melody 
And  singing  fire  .  .  . 

And  then  when  quiet  fell, 
And  they  together,  with  so  much  to  tell, 
So  much  to  tell  each  other  instantly, 
Left  the  hot  throng  and  roar  and  glare  behind 
Seeking  the  darker  streets,  and  stood  at  last 
In  a  dark  lane  where  footsteps  seldom  passed, 
Lit  by  a  far  lamp  and  one  glowing  blind 

49 


LIVELIHOOD 

That   seemed   to   make   the   darkness   yet   more 

dark 

Between  the  cliffs  of  houses,  black  and  high, 
That  soared  above  them  to  the  starry  sky, 
A  deep  blue  sky  where  spark  on  fiery  spark 
The  stars  for  them  were  kindled,  as  they  raised 
Their  eyes  in  new-born  wonder  to  the  night: 
And  in  a  solitude  of  cold  starlight 
They  stood  alone  together,  hushed,  and  gazed 
Into  each  other's  eyes  until  speech  came: 
And    underneath    the    stars    they    talked    and 

talked  .  .  . 

Then  he  remembered  how  they  two  had  walked 

Along  a  beach  that  was  one  golden  flame 

Of  yellow  sand  beside  a  flame-blue  sea 

The  day  they  wedded,  that  strange  day  of  dream, 

One  flame  of  blue  and  gold  .  .  . 

The  murky  stream 

Flowed  once  again  before  his  eyes,  and  he 
Dropt  back  into  the  present;  and  he  knew 
That  he  must  break  the  news  that  suddenly 
Had  come  to  him  last  night  as  drowsily 
He  lay  beside  her — startling,  stern  and  true 
Out  of  the  darkness  flashing.    He  must  tell 
How,  as  he  lay  beside  her  in  the  night 
His  heart  had  told  him  he  must  go  and  fight, 
Must  throw  up  everything  he  loved  so  well 
To  go  and  fight  in  lands  across  the  sea 
Beside  the  other  lads — must  throw  up  all, 
His  work,  his  home  .  .  . 

5° 


THE  NEWS 

The  shadow  of  the  wall 
Fell  on  her  once  again,  and  stridently 
That  hammer  struck  her  heart,  as  from  the  stream 
She  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  and  saw  their  flame. — 
Then  back  into  her  heart  her  glad  news  came 
As  John  smiled  on  her;  and  her  golden  dream 
Once  more  was  all  about  her  as  she  thought 
Of  home,  the  new  home  that  the  future  held 
For  them — they  three  together.    Fear  was  quelled 
By  this  new  happiness  that  all  unsought 
Had  sprung  from  the  old  happiness  .  .  . 

And  he 
Watching  her,  thought  of  home,  too.     When  he 

stept 

With  her  across  the  threshold  first,  and  slept 
That  first  night  in  her  arms  so  quietly, 
For  the  first  time  in  all  his  life  he'd  known 
All  that  home  meant,  or  nearly  all — for  yet 
Each  night  brought  him  new  knowledge  as  she 

met 

Him,  smiling  on  the  clean  white  threshold-stone 
When  he  returned  from  labour  in  the  Yard  .  .  . 

And  she'ld  be  waiting  for  him  soon,  while  he 
Was  fighting  with  his  fellows  oversea- 
She  would  be  waiting  for  him  .  .  . 

It  was  hard 

For  him  that  he  must  go,  as  go  he  must, 
But  harder  far  for  her:  things  always  fell 
Harder  upon  the  women.    It  was  well 
She  didn't  dream  yet  ...    He  could  only  trust 


LIVELIHOOD 

She,  too,  would  feel  that  he  had  got  to  go, 
Then  'twould  not  be  so  hard  to  go,  and  yet  ... 
Dreaming,  he  saw  the  lamplit  table,  set 
With  silver  pot  and  cups  and  plates  aglow 
For  tea  in  their  own  kitchen  bright  and  snug, 
With  her  behind  the  tea-pot — saw  it  all, 
The  coloured  calendars  upon  the  wall, 
The  bright  fire-irons,  and  the  gay  hearthrug 
She'd  made  herself  from  gaudy  rags;  his  place 
Awaiting  him,  with  something  hot-and-hot — 
His  favourite  sausages  as  like  as  not, 
Between    two    plates    for    him — as,    with    clean 

face 

Glowing  from  washing  in  the  scullery, 
And  such  a  hunger  on  him,  he  would  sink 
Content  into  his  chair  .  .  . 

'Twas  strange  to  think 
All  this  was  over,  and  so  suddenly, — 
'Twas  strange,  and  hard  .  .  . 

Still  gazing  on  the  stream, 
Her  thoughts,  too,  were  at  home.    She  heard  the 

patter 

Of  tiny  feet  beside  her,  and  the  chatter 
Of  little  tongues  .  .  . 

Then  loudly  through  their  dream 
The  buzzer  boomed:  and  all  about  them  rose 
The  men  and  women :  soon  the  wives  were  on 
The  ferry-boat,  now  puffing  to  be  gone: 
The   husbands   hurrying,    ere   the   gates   should 

close, 
Back  to  the  Yard  .  .  . 

52 


THE  NEWS 


She,  in  her  dream  of  gold, 
And  he,  in  his  new  desolation,  stood; 
Then  soberly,  as  wife  and  husband  should, 
They  parted,  with  their  news  as  yet  untold. 


53 


DAFFODILS 

He  liked  the  daffodils.    He  liked  to  see 
Them  nodding  in  the  hedgerows  cheerily 
Along  the  dusty  lanes  as  he  went  by- 
Nodding  and  laughing  to  a  fellow — Ay, 
Nodding  and  laughing  till  you 'Id  almost  think 
They,  too,  enjoyed  the  jest. 

Without  a  wink 

That  solemn  butler  said  it,  calm  and  smug, 
Deep- voiced  as  though  he  talked  into  a  jug: 
"His  lordship  says  he  won't  require  no  more 
Crocks  rivetted  or  mended  till  the  war 
Is  over." 

Lord!    He'd  asked  to  have  a  wire 
The  moment  that  his  lordship  should  desire 
To  celebrate  the  occasion  fittingly 
By  a  wild  burst  of  mending  crockery 
Like  a  true  Englishman,  and  hang  expense! 
He'd  had  to  ask  it,  though  he'd  too  much  sense 
To  lift  a  lash  or  breathe  a  word  before 
His  lordship's  lordship  closed  the  heavy  door. 
And  then  he'd  laughed.    Lord !  but  it  did  him  good 
That  quiet  laugh.    And  somewhere  in  the  wood 
Behind  the  Hall  there,  a  woodpecker  laughed 
Right  out  aloud  as  though  he'd  gone  clean  daft— 


54 


DAFFODILS 

Right  out  aloud  he  laughed,  the  brazen  bird, 
As  if  he  didn't  care  a  straw  who  heard — 
But  then  he'd  not  his  daily  bread  to  earn 
By  mending  crocks. 

And  now  at  every  turn 
The  daffodils  are  laughing  quietly 
Nodding  and  laughing  to  themselves,  as  he 
Chuckled:  Now  there's  a  patriot,  real  true-blue! 

It  seemed  the  daffodils  enjoyed  it  too— 
The  fun  of  it.    He  wished  that  he  could  see — 
Old  solemn-mug — them  laughing  quietly 
At  him.    But  then,  he'ld  never  have  a  dim 
Idea  they  laughed,  and,  least  of  all,  at  him. 
He'ld  never  dream  they  could  be  laughing  at 
A  butler. 

'Twould  be  good  to  see  the  fat 
Old  peach-cheek  in  his  solemn  black  and  starch 
Parading  in  his  pompous  parlour-march 
Across  that  field  of  laughing  daffodils. 
'Twould  be  a  sight  to  make  you  skip  up  hills, 
Ay,  crutch  and  all,  and  never  feel  your  pack, 
To  see  a  butler  in  his  starch  and  black 
Among  the  daffodils,  ridiculous 
As  that  old  bubbly-jock  with  strut  and  fuss — 
Though  that  was  rather  rough  upon  the  bird! 
For  all  his  pride,  he  didn't  look  absurd 
Among  the  flowers — nor  even  that  black  sow 
Grunting  and  grubbing  in  among  them  now. 

And  he  was  glad  he  hadn't  got  a  trade 
That  starched  the  mother- wit  in  you,  and  made 
55 


LIVELIHOOD 

A  man  look  silly  in  a  field  of  flowers. 

'Twas  better  mending  crocks,  although  for  hours 

You  hobbled  on — ay!  and,  maybe  for  days — 

Hungry  and  cold  along  the  muddy  ways 

Without  a  job.    And  even  when  the  sun 

Was  shining,  'twas  not  altogether  fun 

To  lose  the  chance  of  earning  a  few  pence 

In  these  days:  though  'twas  well  he'd  got  the 

sense 

To  see  the  funny  side  of  things.    It  cost 
You  nothing,  laughing  to  yourself.    You  lost 
Far  more  by  going  fiddle-faced  through  life 
Looking  for  trouble. 

He  would  tell  his  wife 

When  he  got  home.    But  lord,  she'ld  never  see 
What  tickled  him  so  mightily,  not  she! 
She'ld  only  look  up  puzzled-like,  and  say 
She  didn't  wonder  at  his  lordship.    Nay, 
With  tripe  and  trotters  at  the  price  they  were 
You'd  got  to  count  your  coppers  and  take  care 
Of  every  farthing. 

Jack  would  see  the  fun — 

Ay,  Jack  would  see  the  joke.    Jack  was  his  son—- 
The youngest  of  the  lot.    And,  man-alive, 
'Twas  queer  that  only  one  of  all  the  five 
Had  got  a  twinkle  in  him — all  the  rest 
Dull  as  ditchwater  to  the  merriest  jest. 
Good  lads  enough  they  were,  their  mother's  sons; 
And  they'd  all  pluck  enough  to  face  the  guns 
Out  at  the  front.    They'd  got  their  mother's  pluck: 
And  he  was  proud  of  them,  and  wished  them  luck. 

56 


DAFFODILS 

That  was  no  laughing  matter — though  'twas  well 

Maybe  if  you  could  crack  a  joke  in  hell 

And    shame    the   devil.     Jack,    at   least,    would 

fight 

As  well  as  any  though  his  heart  was  light. 
Jack  was  the  boy  for  fighting  and  for  fun; 
And  he  was  glad  to  think  he'd  got  a  son 
Who,  even  facing  bloody  death,  would  see 
That  little  joke  about  the  crockery, 
And  chuckle  as  he  charged. 

His  thoughts  dropped  back 
Through  eighteen  years;  and  he  again  saw  Jack 
At  the  old  home  beneath  the  Malvern  hills, 
A  little  fellow  plucking  daffodils, 
A  little  fellow  who  could  scarcely  walk, 
Yet  chuckling  as  he  snapped  each  juicy  stalk 
And  held  up  every  yellow  bloom  to  smell, 
Poking  his  tiny  nose  into  the  bell 
And  sniffing  its  fresh  scent,  and  chuckling  still 
As  though  he'd  secrets  with  each  daffodil. 
Ay,  he  could  see  again  the  little  fellow 
In  his  blue  frock  among  that  laughing  yellow, 
And  plovers  in  their  sheeny  black  and  white 
Flirting  and  tumbling  in  the  morning  light 
About  his  curly  head.    He  still  could  see, 
Shutting  his  eyes,  as  plain  as  plain  could  be, 
Drift  upon  drift,  those  long-dead  daffodils 
Against  the  far  green  of  the  Malvern  hills, 
Nodding  and  laughing  round  his  little  lad, 
As  if  to  see  him  happy  made  them  glad — 
Nodding  and  laughing  .  .  . 

57 


LIVELIHOOD 

They  were  nodding  now, 
The  daffodils,  and  laughing — yet,  somehow, 
They  didn't  seem  so  merry  now  .  .  . 

And  he 

Was  fighting  in  a  bloody  trench  maybe 
For  very  life  this  minute  .  .  . 

They  missed  Jack, 
And  he  would  give  them  all  to  have  him  back. 


BETWEEN  THE  LINES 

When  consciousness  came  back,  he  found  he  lay 
Between  the  opposing  fires,  but  could  not  tell 
On  which  hand  were  his  friends;  and  either  way 
For  him  to  turn  was  chancy — bullet  and  shell 
Whistling  and  shrieking  over  him,  as  the  glare 
Of    searchlights    scoured    the   darkness    to    blind 

day. 

He  scrambled  to  his  hands  and  knees  ascare, 
Dragging  his  wounded  foot  through  puddled  clay, 
And  tumbled  in  a  hole  a  shell  had  scooped 
At  random  in  a  turnip-field  between 
The  unseen  trenches  where  the  foes  lay  cooped 
Through  that  unending  battle  of  unseen- 
Dead-locked  league-stretching  armies;  and  quite 

spent 

He  rolled  upon  his  back  within  the  pit, 
And  lay  secure,  thinking  of  all  it  meant — 
His  lying  in  that  little  hole,  sore  hit, 
But  living,  while  across  the  starry  sky 
Shrapnel  and  shell  went  screeching  overhead — 
Of  all  it  meant  that  he,  Tom  Dodd,  should  lie 
Among  the  Belgian  turnips,  while  his  bed  .  .  . 

If  it  were  he,  indeed,  who'd  climbed  each  night, 
Fagged  with  the  day's  work,  up  the  narrow  stair, 
And  slipt  his  clothes  off  in  the  candle-light, 
Too  tired  to  fold  them  neatly  on  a  chair 

59 


LIVELIHOOD 

The  way  his  mother'd  taught  him — too  dog-tired 
After  the  long  day's  serving  in  the  shop, 
Inquiring  what  each  customer  required, 
Politely  talking  weather,  fit  to  drop  .  .  . 

And  now  for  fourteen  days  and  nights,  at  least, 
He  hadn't  had  his  clothes  off;  and  had  lain 
In  muddy  trenches,  napping  like  a  beast 
With  one  eye  open,  under  sun  and  rain 
And  that  unceasing  hell-fire  .  ^^ 

It  was  strange 
How  things  turned  out— the  chances!    You'd  just 

got 

To  take  your  luck  in  life,  you  couldn't  change 
Your  luck. 

And  so  here  he  was  lying  shot 
Who  just  six  months  ago  had  thought  to  spend 
His  days  behind  a  counter.    Still,  perhaps  .  .  . 
And  now,  God  only  knew  how  he  would  end! 

He'ld  like  to  know  how  many  of  the  chaps 
Had  won  back  to  the  trench  alive,  when  he 
Had  fallen  wounded  and  been  left  for  dead, 
If  any!  ..." 

This  was  different,  certainly, 
From  selling  knots  of  tape  and  reels  of  thread 
And  knots  of  tape  and  reels  of  thread  and  knots 
Of  tape  and  reels  of  thread  and  knots  of  tape, 
Day  in,  day  out,  and  answering  "Have  you  got's" 
And  "Do  you  keep's,"  till  there  seemed  no  escape 
From  everlasting  serving  in  a  shop, 
Inquiring  what  each  customer  required, 

60 


BETWEEN  THE   LINES 

Politely  talking  weather,  fit  to  drop, 
With  swollen  ankles,  tired  .  .  . 

But  he  was  tired 

Now.    Every  bone  was  aching,  and  had  ached 
For  fourteen  days  and  nights  in  that  wet  trench — 
Just  duller  when  he  slept  than  when  he  waked — 
Crouching  for  shelter  from  the  steady  drench 
Of  shell  and  shrapnel  .  .  . 

That  old  trench,  it  seemed 
Almost  like  home  to  him.    He'd  slept  and  fed 
And  sung  and  smoked  in  it,  while  shrapnel  screamed 
And  shells  went  whining  harmless  overhead — 
Harmless,  at  least,  as  far  as  he  ... 

But  Dick- 
Dick  hadn't  found  them  harmless  yesterday, 
At  breakfast,  when  he'd  said  he  couldn't  stick 
Eating  dry  bread,  and  crawled  out  the  back  way, 
And  brought  them  butter  in  a  lordly  dish — 
Butter  enough  for  all,  and  held  it  high, 
Yellow  and  fresh  and  clean  as  you  could  wish — 
When  plump  upon  the  plate  from  out  the  sky 
A  shell  fell  bursting  .  .  .  Where  the  butter  went, 
God  only  knew !  .  .  . 

And  Dick  ...  He  dared  not  think 
Of  what  had  come  to  Dick  ...  or  what  it  meant — 
The  shrieking  and  the  whistling  and  the  stink 
He'd  lived  in  fourteen  days  and  nights.     'Twas 

luck 

That  he  still  lived  .  .  .  And  queer  how  little  then 
He  seemed  to  care  that  Dick  .  .  .  Perhaps  'twas 

pluck 

61 


LIVELIHOOD 

That  hardened  him — a  man  among  the  men — 
Perhaps  .  .  .  Yet,  only  think  things  out  a  bit, 
And  he  was  rabbit-livered,  blue  with  funk! 
And  he'd  liked  Dick  .  .  .  and  yet  when  Dick  was 

hit, 

He  hadn't  turned  a  hair.    The  meanest  skunk 
He  should  have  thought  would  feel  it  when  his 

mate 

Was  blown  to  smithereens — Dick,  proud  as  punch, 
Grinning  like  sin,  and  holding  up  the  plate — 
But  he  had  gone  on  munching  his  dry  hunch, 
Unwinking,  till  he  swallowed  the  last  crumb. 

Perhaps  'twas  just  because  he  dared  not  let 
His  mind  run  upon  Dick,  who'd  been  his  chum. 
He  dared  not  now,  though  he  could  not  forget. 

Dick  took  his  luck.     And,  life  or  death,  'twas 

luck 

From  first  to  last;  and  you'd  just  got  to  trust 
Your  luck  and  grin.    It  wasn't  so  much  pluck 
As  knowing  that  you'd  got  to,  when  needs  must, 
And  better  to  die  grinning  .  .  . 

Quiet  now 

Had  fallen  on  the  night.    On  either  hand 
The  guns  were  quiet.     Cool  upon  his  brow 
The  quiet  darkness  brooded,  as  he  scanned 
The  starry  sky.    He'd  never  seen  before 
So  many  stars.    Although,  of  course,  he'd  known 
That  there  were  stars,  somehow  before  the  war 
He'd  never  realised  them — so  thick-sown, 

62 


BETWEEN  THE   LINES 

Millions  and  millions.    Serving  in  the  shop, 
Stars  didn't  count  for  much;  and  then  at  nights 
Strolling  the  pavements,  dull  and  fit  to  drop, 
You  didn't  see  much  but  the  city  lights. 
He'd  never  in  his  life  seen  so  much  sky 
As  he'd  seen  this  last  fortnight.    It  was  queer 
The  things  war  taught  you.    He'd  a  mind  to  try 
To  count  the  stars — they  shone  so  bright  and 

clear. 
One,  two,  three,  four  .  .  .    Ah,  God,  but  he  was 

tired  .  .  . 
Five,  six,  seven,  eight  .  .  . 

Yes:  it  was  number  eight. 
And  what  was  the  next  thing  that  she  required? 
(Too  bad  of  customers  to  come  so  late, 
At  closing-time!)    Again  within  the  shop 
He  handled  knots  of  tape  and  reels  of  thread, 
Politely  talking  weather,  fit  to  drop  .  .  . 

When  once  again  the  whole  sky  overhead 

Flared  blind  with  searchlights,  and  the  shriek  of 

shell 

And  scream  of  shrapnel  roused  him.    Drowsily 
He  stared  about  him  wondering.    Then  he  fell 
Into  deep  dreamless  slumber. 


He  could  see 
Two  dark  eyes  peeping  at  him,  ere  he  knew 
He  was  awake,  and  it  again  was  day — 
An  August  morning  burning  to  clear  blue. 
The  frightened  rabbit  scuttled  .  .  . 

63 


LIVELIHOOD 

Far  away, 

A  sound  of  firing  .  .  .    Up  there,  in  the  sky 
Big  dragon-flies  hung  hovering  .  .  .     Snowballs 

burst 
About  them  .  .  . 

Flies  and  snowballs !   With  a  cry 
He  crouched  to  watch  the  airmen  pass — the  first 
That  he'd  seen  under  fire.    Lord,  that  was  pluck — 
Shells  bursting  all  about  them — and  what  nerve! 
They  took  their  chance,  and  trusted  to  their  luck. 
At  such  a  dizzy  height  to  dip  and  swerve, 
Dodging  the  shell-fire  .  .  . 

Hell!  but  one  was  hit, 
And  tumbling  like  a  pigeon,  plump  .  .  . 

Thank  Heaven, 

It  righted,  and  then  turned;  and  after  it 
The  whole  flock  followed  safe — four,  five,  six,  seven, 
Yes,  they  were  all  there  safe.   He  hoped  they 'Id  win 
Back  to  their  lines  in  safety.    They  deserved, 
Even  if  they  were  Germans  .  .  .    'Twas  no  sin 
To  wish  them  luck.      Think   how  that  beggar 

swerved 
Just  in  the  nick  of  time! 

He,  too,  must  try 

To  win  back  to  the  lines,  though,  likely  as  not, 
He'ld  take  the  wrong  turn:  but  he  couldn't  lie 
For  ever  in  that  hungry  hole  and  rot. 
He'd  got  to  take  his  luck,  to  take  his  chance 
Of  being  sniped  by  foes  or  friends.    He'ld  be 
With  any  luck  in  Germany  or  France 
Or  kingdom-come,  next  morning  .  .  . 
64 


BETWEEN  THE   LINES 


Drearily 

The  blazing  day  burnt  over  him,  shot  and  shell 
Whistling  and  whining  ceaselessly.    But  light 
Faded  at  last,  and  as  the  darkness  fell 
He  rose,  and  crawled  away  into  the  night. 


STRAWBERRIES 

Since  four  she  had  been  plucking  strawberries: 
And  it  was  only  eight  now;  and  the  sun 
Already  blazing.    There'ld  be  little  ease 
For  her  until  the  endless  day  was  done  .  .  . 

Yet,  why  should  she  have  any  ease,  while  he — 
While  he  ... 

But  there,  she  mustn't  think  of  him, 
Fighting  beneath  that  burning  sun,  maybe, — 
His  rifle  nigh  red-hot,  and  every  limb 
Aching  for  sleep,  the  sweat  dried  on  his  brow, 
And  baking  in  the  blaze,  and  such  a  thirst, 
Prickly  and  choking,  she  could  feel  it  now 
In  her  own  throat.    He'd  said  it  was  the  worst, 
In  his  last  letter,  worst  of  all  to  bear, 
That  burning  thirst — that,  and  the  hellish  noise  .  .  . 

And  she  was  plucking  strawberries:  and  there 
In  the  cool  shadow  of  the  elm  their  boys, 
Their  baby-boys,  were  sleeping  quietly  .  .  . 

But  she  was  aching  too:  her  head  and  back 
Were  one  hot  blinding  ache;  and  dizzily 
Sometimes  across  her  eyes  the  light  swam  black 
With  dancing  spots  of  red  ... 

66 


STRAWBERRIES 

So  ripe  and  sweet 
Among  their  fresh  green  leaves  the  strawberries 

lay, 

Although  the  earth  was  baking  in  the  heat, 
Burning  her  soles — and  yet  the  summer  day 
Was  young  enough! 

If  she  could  only  cram 
A  handful  of  fresh  berries  sweet  and  cool 
Into  his  mouth,  while  he  ... 

A  red  light  swam 
Before  her  eyes  .  .  . 

She  mustn't  think,  poor  fool, 
What  he'ld  be  doing  now,  or  she'ld  go  crazed  .  .  . 
Then  what  would  happen  to  them  left  alone— 
The  little  lads! 

And  he  would  be  fair  mazed, 
When   he    came    back,    to    see    how    they   had 

grown, 
William  and  Dick,  and  how  they  talked.     Two 

year, 

Since  he  had  gone — and  he  had  never  set 
His  eyes  upon  his  youngest  son.    'Twas  queer 
To  think  he  hadn't  seen  his  baby  yet,— 
And  it  nigh  fourteen  months  old. 

Everything 

Was  queer  in  these  days.    She  could  never  guess 
How  it  had  come  about  that  he  could  bring 
Himself  to  go  and  fight.    'Twas  little  less 
Than  murder  to  have  taken  him,  and  he 
So  mild  and  easy- tempered,  never  one 
For  drink  or  picking  quarrels  hastily  .  .  . 


LIVELIHOOD 

And  now  he  would  be  fighting  in  that  sun  .  .  . 
'Twas  quite  beyond  her.    Yet,  somehow,  it  seemed 
He'd  got  to  go.    She  couldn't  understand  .  .  . 
When  they  had  married,  little  had  they  dreamed 
What  things  were  coming  to!    In  all  the  land 
There  was  no  gentler  husband  .  .  . 

It  was  queer: 

She  couldn't  get  the  rights  of  it,  no  way. 
She   thought  and   thought,   but  couldn't  get  it 

clear 

Why  he'd  to  leave  his  own  work — making  hay 
'Twould  be  this  weather — leave  his  home,  and 

all— 

His  wife  and  his  young  family,  and  go 
To  fight  in  foreign  lands,  and  maybe  fall, 
Fighting  another  lad  he  didn't  know, 
And  had  no  quarrel  with  .  .  . 

The  world  was  mad, 
Or  she  was  going  crazy.    Anyhow 
She  couldn't  see  the  rights  of  it  ...  Her  lad 
Had  thought  it  right  to  go,  she  knew  .  .  . 

But  now 

She  mustn't  think  about  it  all  ...  And  so 
She'd  best  stop  puzzling,  and  pluck  strawberries  . . . 

And  every  woman  plucking  in  the  row 
Had  husband,  son,  or  brother  overseas. 

Men  seemed  to  see  things  differently:  and  still 
She  wondered  sore  if  even  they  knew  why 
They  went  themselves,  almost  against  their  will . . . 

68 


STRAWBERRIES 


But  sure  enough,  that  was  her  baby's  cry. 
'Twas  feeding  time:  and  she'ld  be  glad  to  rest 
Her  back  a  bit.    It  always  gave  her  ease, 
To  feel  her  baby  feeding  at  her  breast, 
And  pluck  to  go  on  gathering  strawberries. 


69 


THE  BLAST-FURNACE 

And  such  a  night !    But  maybe  in  that  mood 
'Twas  for  the  best;  for  he  was  like  to  brood — 
And  he  could  hardly  brood  on  such  a  night 
With  that  squall  blowing,  on  this  dizzy  height 
Where  he  caught  every  breath  of  it — the  snow 
Stinging  his  cheek,  and  melting  in  the  glow 
Above  the  furnace,  big  white  flakes  that  fell 
Sizzling  upon  the  red-hot  furnace  bell: 
And  the  sea  roaring,  down  there  in  the  dark, 
So  loud  to-night  he  needn't  stop  to  hark — 
Four  hundred  feet  below  where  now  he  stood. 
A  lively  place  to  earn  a  livelihood — 
His  livelihood,  his  mother's,  and  the  three 
Young  sisters',  quite  a  little  family 
Depending  on  him  now — on  him,  Jim  Burn, 
Just  nineteen  past — to  work  for  them,  and  earn 
Money  enough  to  buy  them  daily  bread 
Already  .  .  . 

And  his  father  on  the  bed 
At  home  .  .  .  gey  sudden  .  .  . 

Nay,  he  mustn't  think: 
But  shove  his  trolley  to  the  furnace  brink, 
And  tip  his  load  upon  the  glowing  bell, 
Then  back  again  towards  the  hoist.    'Twas  well 
He'd  work  to  stop  him  thinking.    He  was  glad 
His  mate  to-night  was  not  a  talky  lad — 
But  Peter,  mum-glum  Peter,  who  would  stare 

70 


THE   BLAST-FURNACE 

With  such  queer  sulky  looks  upon  the  fire 
When  round  the  dipping  bell  it  shot  up  high 
With  roar  and  flourish  into  that  black  sky. 
He  liked  to  hear  it  roaring,  liked  to  see 
The  great  flame  leaping  skyward  suddenly, 
Then  sinking  slowly,  as  the  bell  rose  up 
And  covered  it  again  with  red-hot  cup, 
When  it  would  feed  more  quiet  for  a  time 
Upon  the  meal  of  ironstone  and  Lime 
He'd  fetched  it  in  his  trolley  .  .  . 

Ay,  and  he, 

Trundling  his  truck  along  that  gallery 
High  in  the  air  all  night  to  keep  it  fed — 
And  all  the  while  his  father  lying  dead 
At  home — to  learn  a  livelihood.    'Twas  strange 
To  think  what  it  all  meant  to  him — the  change  .  .  . 

And    strange    he'd    never    thought    before    how 

queer 

It  was  for  him,  earning  his  bread  up  here 
On    this    blast-furnace,    perched    on    the    cliff- 
top— 

Four  hundred  feet  or  so,  a  dizzy  drop, 
And  he'ld  be  feeding  fishes  in  the  sea ! 
How  loud  it  roared  to-night,  and  angrily — 
He  liked  to  hear  it  breaking  on  the  shore, 
And  the  wind's  threshing,  and  the  furnace'  roar: 
And  then  the  sudden  quiet,  a  dead  lull, 
When  you  could  only  hear  a  frightened  gull 
Screeching  down  in  the  darkness  there  below, 
Or  a  dog's  yelp  from  the  valley,  or  the  snow 


LIVELIHOOD 

Sizzling  upon  hot  iron.  Queer,  indeed, 
To  think  that  he  had  never  taken  heed 
Before  to-night,  or  thought  about  it  all. 

He'd  been  a  boy  till  this,  and  had  no  call 
To  turn  his  mind  to  thinking  seriously. 
But  he'd  grown  up  since  yesterday;  and  he 
Must  think  a  man's  thoughts  now — since  yesterday 
When  he'd  not  had  a  thought  but  who  should  play 
Full-back  for  Cleveland  Rovers,  now  that  Jack 
Had  gone  to  Montreal,  or  should  he  back 
Old  Girl  or  Cleopatra  for  the  Cup. 

In  four-and-twenty  hours  he  had  grown  up  ... 
His  father,  sinking  back  there  on  the  bed, 
With  glassy  eyes  and  helpless  lolling  head  .  .  . 
The  dropping  jaw  .  .  .  the  breath   that  didn't 

come, 
Though  still  he  listened  for  it,  frozen  numb  .  .  . 

And  then,  his  mother  .  .  .  but  he  must  not  let 
His  mind  run  on  his  mother  now.    And  yet 
He'd  often  thought  his  father  glum  and  grim. 
He  understood  now.    It  was  not  for  him, 
His  son,  to  breathe  a  word  to  her,  when  he, 
Her  husband,  had  borne  with  her  patiently 
Through  all  those  years.    Ay,  now  he  understood 
Much,  since  he  hadn't  his  own  livelihood 
To  think  of  only,  but  five  mouths  to  feed — 
And  the  oldest,  the  most  helpless  ...  He  had 
need 

72 


THE  BLAST-FURNACE 

To  understand  a  little  .  .  . 

But  to-night 

He  mustn't  brood  .  .  .  And  what  a  golden  light 
The  steady  spurt  of  molten  slag  below 
Threw  up  upon  the  snow-clouds — and  the  snow 
Drifting  down  through  it  in  great  flakes  of  gold, 
Melting  to  steam,  or  driven,  white  and  cold, 
Into  the  darkness  on  a  sudden  gust. 
And  how  the  cold  wind  caught  him,  as  he  thrust 
His  empty  trolley  back  towards  the  hoist, 
Straight  from  the  sea,  making  his  dry  lips  moist 
With  salty  breath. 

'Twas  strange  to-night,  how  he 
Was  noticing,  and  seeing  suddenly 
Things  for  the  first  time  he'd  not  seen  before, 
Though  he'd  been  on  this  shift  at  least  a  score 
Of  times.     But  things  were  different  somehow. 

Strange 
To   think   his   father's  death  had   wrought   the 

change 

And  made  him  see  things  different — little  things: 
The  sudden  flashing  of  a  sea-gull's  wings 
Out  of  the  dark,  bewildered  by  the  glare; 
And,  when  the  flame  leapt,  mum-glum  Peter's  hair 
Kindling  a  fierier  red;  the  wind;  the  snow; 
The  unseen  washing  of  the  waves  below 
About  the  cliff-foot.    He  could  almost  see, 
In  fancy,  breakers,  frothing  furiously 
Against  the  crumbling  cliffs— the  frantic  spray 
Leaping  into  the  darkness,  nigh  half-way 
Up  the  sheer  height. 

73 


LIVELIHOOD 

And  now  his  thoughts  dropt  back 
Into  the  valley,  lying  still  and  black 
Behind  him — and  the  mine  where  other  men 
Were  toiling  on  their  nightshift,  even  then 
Working  the  ironstone  for  daily  bread, 
Their  livelihood  .  .  . 

He  saw  the  little  red 

Raw  row  of  square  brick  houses,  dark  they'ld  be 
And  quiet  now.    Yet,  plainly  he  could  see 
The  street  he  lived  in — ay,  and  Number  Eight, 
His  father's  house:  the  rusty  iron  gate; 
The  unkempt  garden;  and  the  blistered  door; 
The  unwashed  doorstep  he'd  not  seen  before, 
Or,  leastways,  hadn't  noticed;  and  the  bell 
That  never  rang,  though  he  remembered  well 
His  father'd  tinkered  it,  times  out  of  mind; 
And  in  each  window,  a  drawn  yellow  blind 
Broken  and  grimy — and  that  blind,  to-day 
Drawn  down  for  the  first  time  .  .  . 

His  father  lay 

In  the  front  bedroom,  quiet  on  the  bed  .  .  . 
And  he,  upon  his  usual  shift  .  .  . 

She'd  said, 

His  mother'd  said;  he  shouldn't  take  his  shift 
Before  the  undertaker'd  been  to  lift  ... 
'Twas  scarcely  decent:  that  was  what  she  said — 
Him  working,  and  his  father  lying  dead, 
And  hardly  cold  .  .  . 

And  she,  to  talk  to  him, 
His  son,  of  decency,  there,  with  that  grim 
Half-smile  still  on  her  husband's  cold  white  face! 

74 


THE  BLAST-FURNACE 

He  couldn't  bide  a  moment  in  the  place 
Listening  to  her  chat-chatter,  knowing  all 
That  he  knew  now  .  .  .  But  there,  he  had  no  call 
To  blame  her,  when  his  father'd  never  blamed. 
He  wondered  in  that  room  she  wasn't  shamed  .  .  . 

She  didn't  understand.    He  understood, 
Now  he'd  grown  up;  and  had  his  livelihood, 
And  theirs,  to  earn  .  .  . 

Lord,  but  that  was  a  rare 
Fine  flourish  the  flame  made,  a  bonnie  flare 
Leaping  up  to  the  stars.    The  snow  had  stopt: 
He  hadn't  heeded:  and  the  wind  had  dropt 
Suddenly:  and  the  stars  were  shining  clear. 
Over  the  furnace'  roaring  he  could  hear 
The  waves  wash- washing;  and  could  see  the  foam 
Lifting  and  falling  down  there  in  the  gloam  .  .  . 
White  as  his  father's  face  .  .  . 

He'd  never  heard 

His  father  murmur  once — nay,  not  a  word 
He'd  muttered:  he  was  never  one  to  blame. 
And  men  had  got  to  take  things  as  they  came. 


75 


IN  THE  MEADOW 

The  smell  of  wet  hay  in  the  heat 

All  morning  steaming  round  him  rose, 

As,  in  a  kind  of  nodding  doze, 

Perched  on  the  hard  and  jolting  seat, 

He  drove  the  rattling  jangling  rake 

Round  and  around  the  Five  Oaks  Mead. 

With  that  old  mare  he  scarcely  need 

To  drive  at  all  or  keep  awake. 

Gazing  with  half-shut,  sleepy  eyes 

At  her  white  flanks  and  grizzled  tail 

That  flicked  and  flicked  without  avail, 

To  drive  away  the  cloud  of  flies 

That  hovered,  closing  and  unclosing, 

A  shimmering  hum  and  humming  shimmer, 

Dwindling  dim  and  ever  dimmer 

In  his  dazzled  sight,  till,  dozing, 

He  seemed  to  hear  a  murmuring  stream 

And  gaze  into  a  rippling  pool 

Beneath  thick  branches  dark  and  cool — 

And  gazing,  gazing  till  a  gleam 

Within  the  darkness  caught  his  eyes, 

He  saw  there  smiling  up  at  him 

A  young  girl's  face,  now  rippling  dim, 

Now  flashing  clear  .  .  . 

Without  surprise 

He  marked  the  eyes  translucent  blue, 
The  full  red  lips  that  seemed  to  speak, 
The  curves  of  rounded  chin  and  cheek, 
76 


IN  THE  MEADOW 

The  low,  broad  brow,  sun-tanned  .  .  . 

He  knew 

That  face,  yet  could  not  call  to  mind 
Where  he  had  seen  it;  and  in  vain 
Strove  to  recall  .  .  .  when  sudden  rain 
Crashed  down  and  made  the  clear  pool  blind, 
And  it  was  lost  .  .  . 

And,  with  a  jerk 

That  well-nigh  shook  him  from  his  seat, 
He  wakened  to  the  steamy  heat 
And  clank  and  rattle. 

Still  at  work 

The  stolid  mare  kept  on;  and  still 
Over  her  hot,  white  flanks  the  flies 
Hung  humming.    And  his  dazzled  eyes 
Closed  gradually  again,  until 
He  dozed  .  .  . 

And  stood  within  the  door 
Of  Dinchill  dairy,  drinking  there 
Thirst-quenching  draughts  of  stone-cold  air — 
The  scoured  white  shelves  and  sanded  floor 
And  shallow  milk-pans  creamy-white 
Gleamed  coldly  in  the  dusky  light  .  .  . 
And  then  he  saw  her,  stooping  down 
Over  a  milk-pan,  while  her  eyes 
Looked  up  at  him  without  surprise 
Over  the  shoulder  of  her  gown — 
Her  fresh  print  gown  of  speedwell  blue  .  .  . 
The  eyes  that  looked  out  of  the  cool 
Untroubled  crystal  of  the  pool 
Looked  into  his  again. 

77 


LIVELIHOOD 

He  knew 
Those  eyes  now  .  .  . 

From  his  dreamy  doze 
A  sudden  jolting  of  the  rake 
Aroused  him. 

Startled  broad  awake 
He  sat  upright,  lost  in  amaze 
That  he  should  dream  of  her — that  lass! — 
And  see  her  face  within  the  pool! 

He'd  known  her  always.    Why,  at  school 
They'd  sat  together  in  the  class. 
He'd  always  liked  her  well  enough, 
Young  Polly  Dale — and  they  had  played 
At  Prisoners'  Base  and  Who's  Afraid, 
At  Tiggy  and  at  Blindman's  Buff, 
A  hundred  times  together  .  .  . 

Ay, 

He'd  always  known  her  ...    It  was  strange, 
Though  he  had  noticed  that  a  change 
Had  come  upon  her — she  was  shy, 
And  quieter,  since  she  left  school 
And  put  her  hair  up — he'd  not  seen 
Her  face,  till  from  the  glancing  sheen 
It  looked  up  at  him  from  the  pool  .  .  . 

He'd  always  known  her.    Every  day, 
He'd  nod  to  her  as  they  would  pass. 
He'd  always  known  her,  as  a  lass  .  .  . 
He'ld  never  know  her  just  that  way 
Again  now  .  .  . 

78 


IN  THE  MEADOW 

In  a  different  wise 

They'ld  meet — for  how  could  he  forget 
His  dream  .  .  .    The  next  time  that  they  met 
He'ld  look  into  a  woman's  eyes. 


79 


PARTNERS 

He'd  got  to  see  it  through.    Ay,  that  was  plain — 
Plain  as  the  damning  figures  on  that  page 
Which  burnt  and  bit  themselves  into  his  brain 
Since  he'd  first  lighted  on  them — such  an  age 
Since   he'd   first    lighted    on    them!    though    the 

clock 

Had  only  ticked  one  hour  out — its  white  face 
And  black  hands  counting  time  alone — 

The  shock 

Had  dropped  him  out  of  time  and  out  of  space 
Into  the  dead  void  of  eternity, 
Lightless  and  aching,  where  his  soul  hung  dead 
With  wide  set  staring  eyes  that  still  could  see 
Those  damning  figures  burning  hugely  red 
On  the  low  aching  dome  of  the  black  heaven 
That  crushed  upon  his  temples — glaring  bright — 
10,711— 
Searing  his  eyeballs  .  .  . 

Yet  his  living  sight 

Was  fixed  on  the  white  ledger,  while  he  sat 
Before  his  office-table  in  his  chair — 
The  chair  he'd  taken  when  he'd  hung  his  hat 
Within    the    cupboard    door,    and    brushed    his 

hair, 

And  stood  a  moment,  humming  "  Chevy  Chase," 
His  hands  beneath  his  coat-tails,  by  the  grate, 

80 


PARTNERS 

Warming  his  back,  and  thinking  of  a  case 
They'd  won  outright  with  costs,  and  .  .  . 

Phil  was  late: 

But  Phil  was  Phil.    At  home  they  used  to  call 
His  brother  "Better-late."    At  every  turn 
He'd  had  to  wait  for  Phil.    And  after  all 
There  wasn't  so  much  doing,  now  that  concern  .  .  . 

And  little  thinking  anything  was  wrong, 
Laying  his  hand  upon  his  own  armchair 
To  draw  it  out,  still  humming  the  old  song, 
He'd  seen  the  note  from  Philip  lying  there 
Upon  the  open  ledger. 

Once,  he  read 

The  truth,  unrealising,  and  again. 
But  only  two  words  echoed  through  his  head, 
And  buzzed  uncomprehended  in  his  brain — 
"Embezzled"  and  "absconded." 

Phil  had  spelt 

His  shame  out  boldly  in  his  boyish  hand. 
And  then  those  figures  .  .  . 

Dizzily  he  felt 
The  truth  burn  through  him.     He  could  hardly 

stand, 

But  sank  into  his  chair  with  eyes  set  wide 
Upon  those  damning  figures,  murmuring  "Phil!" 
And  listening  to  the  whirr  of  wheels  outside, 
And  sparrows  cheeping  on  the  window-sill — 
Still  murmuring  "Phil!    Poor  Phil!" 

But  Phil  was  gone: 

And  he  was  left  alone  to  bear  the  brunt  .  .  . 

81 


LIVELIHOOD 

"Phil!    Little  Phil!" 

And  still  the  morning  shone 
Bright  at  the  window  .  .  . 

Callous,  curt  and  blunt 
The  world  would  call  his  brother  .  .  .  not  that 

name! 

And  yet  names  mattered  little  at  this  pass. 
He'd  known  that  Phil  was  slack  .  .  .  but  this! 

The  blame 

Was  his  as  much  as  Phil's.    As  in  a  glass 
Darkly,  he  saw  he'd  been  to  blame  as  well: 
And  he  would  bear  the  blame.    Had  he  not  known 
That  Phil  was  slack?    For  all  that  he  could  tell, 
If  he'd  looked  after  Phil,  this  might  .  .  . 

Alone 

He'd  got  to  face  the  music.    He  was  glad 
He  was  alone  .  .  .    And  yet,  for  Phil's  own  sake 
If  he  had  only  had  the  pluck,  poor  lad, 
To  see  the  thing  through  like  a  man,  and  take 
His  punishment! 

For  him,  was  no  escape, 
Either  by  Phil's  road,  or  that  darker  road. 
He  knew  the  cost,  and  how   the  thing  would 

shape — 

Too  well  he  knew  the  full  weight  of  the  load 
He  strapped  upon  his  shoulders.    It  was  just 
That  he  should  bear  the  burden  on  his  back. 
He'd  trusted  Phil;  and  he'd  no  right  to  trust 
Even  his  brother,  knowing  he  was  slack, 
When  other  people's  money  was  at  stake. 
He'd,  too,  been  slack:  and  slackness  was  a  crime — 

82 


PARTNERS 

The  deadliest  crime  of  all  ... 

And  broad  awake, 

As  in  a  nightmare  he  was  "doing  time" 
Already  .  .  . 

Yet,  he'd  only  trusted  Phil— 
His  brother,  Phil — and  it  had  come  to  this! 

Always  before  whenever  things  went  ill 
His  brother'd  turned  to  him  for  help;  and  his 
Had  always  been  the  hand  stretched  out  to  him. 
Now  Phil  had  fled  even  him.    If  he'd  but  known! 

Brooding  he  saw  with  tender  eyes  grown  dim 
Phil  running  down  that  endless  road  alone — 
Phil  running  from  himself  down  that  dark  road — 
The  road  which  leads  nowhither,  which  is  hell : 
And  yearning  towards  him,  bowed  beneath  his  load, 
And  murmuring  "Little  Phil!"  .  .  . 

Again  he  fell 

Into  the  dead  void  of  eternity, 
Lightless  and  aching,  where  his  soul  hung  dead 
With  wide-set  staring  eyes  that  still  could  see 
Those  damning  figures,  burning  hugely  red 
On  the  low  aching  dome  of  the  black  heaven 
That  crushed  upon  his  temples — glaring  bright — 
10,711— 
Searing  his  eyeballs  .  .  . 

When  a  ripple  of  light 
Dappled  his  desk  .  .  . 

And  they  were  boys  to- 
gether, 

83 


LIVELIHOOD 

Rambling  the  hills  of  home  that  April  day, 
Stumbling  and  plunging  knee-deep  through  the 

heather 

Towards  Hallypike,  the  little  lough  that  lay 
Glancing  and  gleaming  in  the  sun,  to  search 
For  eggs  of  inland-breeding  gulls.    He  heard 
The  curlews  piping;  saw  a  blackcock  perch 
Upon  a  dyke  hard-by — a  lordly  bird 
With  queer  curled  tail.    And  soon  they  reached  the 

edge- 

The  quaggy  edge  of  Hallypike.    And  then 
The  gulls  rose  at  them  screaming  from  the  edge 
With  flapping  wings.    And  for  a  while  like  men 
They  stood  their  ground  among  the  quaking  moss, 
Until  half-blinded  by  the  dazzling  white 
Of  interweaving  wings,  and  at  a  loss 
Which  way  to  turn,  they  only  thought  of  flight 
From  those  fierce  cruel  beaks  and  hungry  eyes — 
Yet  stood  transfixed,  each  on  a  quaking  clump, 
With  hands  to  ears  to  shut  out  those  wild  cries. 
Then  the  gulls  closed  on  Phil;  and  with  a  jump 
And  one  shrill  yell  he'd  plunged  into  the  lake 
Half-crazed  with  terror.    Only  just  in  time 
He'd  stumbled  after  through  the  quag  aquake 
And  caught  him^byjthej;oat;  and  through  black 

slime 

Had  dragged  him  into  safety,  far  away 
From  the  horror  of  white  wings  and  beaks  and 

eyes. 

And  he  remembered  now  how  Philip  lay 
Sobbing  upon  his  bosom  .  .  . 

84 


PARTNERS 

Now  those  cries 

Were  threatening  Phil  again;  and  he  was  caught 
Blind  in  a  beating,  baffling,  yelling  hell 
Of  wings  and  beaks  and  eyes.  And  there  was  naught 
That  he  could  do  for  him  .  .  . 

Once  more  he  fell 
Into  the  dead  void  of  eternity, 
Lightless  and  aching,  and  his  soul  hung  dead 
With  wide  set  staring  eyes  that  still  could  see 
Those  damning  figures,  burning  hugely  red 
On  the  low  aching  dome  of  the  black  heaven 
That  crushed  upon  his  temples — glaring  bright — 
10,711 

Searing  his  eyeballs  .  .  .    Then  the  pitchy  night 
Rolled  by  ... 

And  now  that  summer  noon  they 

sat 

In  the  shallows  of  Broomlee  lake,  the  water  warm 
About  their  chins,  and  talked  of  this  and  that; 
And  heeded  nothing  of  the  coming  storm, 
Or  the  strange  breathless  stillness  everywhere 
On  which  the  dull  note  of  the  cuckoo  fell 
Monotonously  beating  through  dead  air, 
A  throbbing  pulse  of  heat  made  audible. 
And  even  when  the  sky  was  brooding  gray 
They'd  slowly  dressed,  and  started  to  walk  round 
The  mile-long  lake:  but  when  they'd  got  half-way, 
A  heavy  fear  fell  on  them;  and  they  found 
That  they  were  clutching  hands.    The  still  lough 

gleamed 
Livid  before  them  'neath  a  livid  sky 


LIVELIHOOD 

Sleek  and  unrippling  .  .  .    Suddenly  they  screamed 
And   ran    headlong    for    home    they   knew    not 

why — 
Ran   stumbling   through   the   heath,    and   never 

stopped — 

And  still  hot  brooding  horror  on  them  pressed 
When  they  had  climbed  up  Sewingshields,  and 

dropped 

Dead-beat  beneath  the  dyke.    And  on  his  breast 
Poor  frightened  Phil  had  sobbed  himself  to  sleep. 

And  even  when  the  crashing  thunder  came, 
Phil  snuggled  close  in  slumber  sound  and  deep. 
And  he  alone  had  watched  the  lightning  flame 
Across  the  fells,  and  flash  on  Hallypike  .  .  . 

And  in  his  office  chair,  he  felt  once  more 

His  back  against  the  sharp  stones  of  the  dyke, 

And  Phil's  hot  clutching  arms  .  .  . 

An  outer  door 
Banged  in  the  wind,  and  roused  him  .  .  . 

He  was  glad, 

In  spite  of  all,  to  think  he'd  trusted  Phil. 
He'd  got  to  see  it  through  .  .  . 

He  saw  the  lad, 

His  little  frightened  brother  crouching  still 
Beneath  the  brooding  horror  of  the  sky. 
That  he  might  take  him  in  his  arms  once  more! 

Now,  he  must  pull  himself  together,  ay! 
For  there  was  someone  tapping  at  the  door. 

86 


THE  ELM 

The  wind  had  caught  the  elm  at  last. 
He'd  lain  all  night  and  wondered  how 
'Twas  bearing  up  against  the  blast: 
And  it  was  down  for  ever  now, 
Snapt  like  a  match-stick.    He,  at  dawn, 
Had  risen  from  his  sleepless  bed, 
And,  hobbling  to  the  window,  drawn 
The  blind  up,  and  had  seen,  instead 
Of  that  brave  tree  against  the  sky, 
Thrust  up  into  the  windless  blue 
A  broken  stump  not  ten  feet  high  .  .  . 

And  it  was  changed,  the  world  he  knew, 
The  world  he'd  known  since  he,  tip-toe, 
Had  first  looked  out  beneath  the  eaves, 
And  seen  that  tree  at  dawn,  aglow, 
Soaring  with  all  its  countless  leaves 
In  their  first  glory  of  fresh  green, 
Like  a  big  flame  above  the  mead. 

How  many  mornings  he  had  seen 
It  soaring  since — well,  it  would  need 
A  better  head  to  figure  out 
Than  his,  now  he  was  seventy-five, 
And  failing  fast  without  a  doubt — 
The  last  of  fifteen,  left  alive, 
That  in  that  very  room  were  born, 
Ay,  and  upon  that  very  bed 
He'd  left  at  daybreak. 
87 


LIVELIHOOD 

Many  a  morn 

He'd  seen  it,  stark  against  the  red 
Of  winter  sunrise,  or  in  Spring — 
Some  April  morning,  dewy-clear, 
With  all  its  green  buds  glittering 
In  the  first  sunbeams,  soaring  sheer 
Out  of  low  mist. 

The  morn  he  wed 
It  seemed  with  glittering  jewels  hung  .  .  . 

And  fifty  year,  his  wife  was  dead — 
And  she,  so  merry-eyed  and  young  .  .  . 

And  it  was  black  the  night  she  died, 
Dead  black  against  the  starry  sky, 
When  he  had  flung  the  window  wide 
Upon  the  night  so  crazily, 
Instead  of  drawing  down  the  blind 
As  he  had  meant.    He  was  so  dazed, 
And  fumbled  so,  he  couldn't  find 
The  hasp  to  pull  it  to,  though  crazed 
To  shut  them  out,  that  starry  night, 
And  that  great  funeral-plume  of  black, 
So  awful  in  the  cold  starlight. 
He'd  fumbled  till  they  drew  him  back, 
And  closed  it  for  him  .  .  . 

And  for  long 

At  night  he  couldn't  bear  to  see 
An  elm  against  the  stars. 

'Twas  wrong, 

He  knew,  to  blame  an  innocent  tree — 
88 


THE  ELM 

Though  some  folk  hated  elms,  and  thought 
Them  evil:  for  their  great  boughs  fell 
So  suddenly  .  .  . 

George  Stubbs  was  caught 
And  crushed  to  death.    You  couldn't  tell 
What  brought  that  great  bough  crashing  there, 
Just  where  George  sat — his  cider-keg 
Raised  to  his  lips — for  all  the  air 
Was  still  as  death  .  .  .  And  just  one  leg 
Stuck  silly-like  out  of  the  leaves, 
When  Seth  waked  up  ten  yards  away 
Where  he'd  been  snoozing  'mid  the  sheaves. 

'Twas  queer-like;  but  you  couldn't  say 
The  tree  itself  had  been  to  blame. 
That  bough  was  rotten  through  and  through, 
And  would  have  fallen  just  the  same 
Though  George  had  not  been  there  .  .  . 

'Twas  true 

That  undertakers  mostly  made 
Cheap  coffins  out  of  elm  .  .  . 

But  he, 

Well,  he  could  never  feel  afraid 
Of  any  living  thing.    That  tree, 
He'd  seemed  to  hate  it  for  a  time 
After  she'd  died  .  .  .  And  yet  somehow 
You  can't  keep  hating  without  rhyme 
Or  reason  any  live  thing. 

Now 

He  grieved  to  see  it,  fallen  low, 
With  almost  every  branch  and  bough 

89 


LIVELIHOOD 

Smashed  into  splinters.    All  that  snow, 
A  dead-weight,  and  that  heavy  blast, 
Had  dragged  it  down :  and  at  his  feet 
It  lay,  the  mighty  tree,  at  last. 

And  he  could  make  its  trunk  his  seat 
And  rest  awhile,  this  winter's  noon 
In  the  warm  sunshine.    He  could  just 
Hobble  so  far.    And  very  soon 
He'ld  lie  as  low  himself.    He'd  trust 
His  body  to  that  wood. 

Old  tree, 

So  proud  and  brave  this  many  a  year, 
Now  brought  so  low  .  .  . 

Ah!  there  was  he, 

His  grandson,  Jo,  with  never  a  fear 
Riding  a  bough  unbroken  yet — • 
A  madcap,  like  his  father,  Jim! 
He'ld  teach  him  sense,  if  he  could  get 
Behind  him  with  a  stick,  the  limb! 


THE  .DOCTOR 

He'ld  soon  be  home.    The  car  was  running  well, 
Considering  what  she'd  been  through,  since  the 

bell 

Tumbled  him  out  again — just  as  his  head 
Sank  in  the  pillow,  glad  to  get  to  bed 
After  the  last  night's  watching,  and  a  day 
Of  travelling  snowy  roads  without  a  stay — 
To  find  the  tall  young  shepherd  at  the  door. 

"The  wife's  gey  bad  in  child-bed" — and  no  more 
He'd  said  till  they  were  seated  in  the  car, 
And  he  was  asked,  Where  to?  and  was  it  far? 
"The  Scalp"  he'd  said— "Some  fifteen  mile  or  so." 

And  they'd  set  out  through  blinding  squalls  of  snow 
To  climb  the  hills.    The  car  could  scarcely  crawl 
At  times,  she  skidded  so;  and  with  that  squall 
Clean  in  his  eyes  he  scarcely  saw  to  steer — 
His  big  lamps  only  lit  a  few  yards  clear — 

But  those  young  eyes  beside  him  seemed  to  pierce 
The  fifteen  miles  of  smother  fuming  fierce 
Between  the  husband  and  his  home — the  light 
In  that  far  bedroom  window  held  his  sight, 
As  though  he  saw  clean  through  the  blinding  squall 
To  the  little  square  stone  steading  that  held  all 
His  heart — so  solitary,  bleak  and  grey 
Among  the  snow  drifts  on  the  windy  brae, 


LIVELIHOOD 

Beyond  the  burn  that,  swollen,  loud  and  black 
Threatened  the  single  plank  that  kept  the  track 
Between  them  and  the  outside  world  secure. 
If  that  were  gone,  when  he  got  back,  for  sure 
They'ld  have  to  plunge  waist-deep  in  that  black 

spate 

And  cling  for  life  upon  the  old  sheep-gate, 
If  it  were  not  gone  too,  to  cross  at  all  ... 

And  she!   He  saw  the  shadow  on  the  wall 

Behind  the  bed,  his  mother's  as  she  bent 

To  comfort  Mary,  for  a  moment  spent 

By  the  long  agony  .  .  .  That  shadow  seemed 

So  black  and  threatening,  and  the  candle  gleamed 

So  strangely  in  those  wild  bright  eyes  .  .  . 

Theyld  be 

Lucky  to  reach  the  bank  at  all:  for  he 
Had  been  through  that  burn  once  on  such  a 

night: 

And  he  remembered  how  he'd  had  to  fight 
The  frothing  flood,  rolled  over,  beaten,  bruised 
And  well-nigh  dragged  down  under,  though  well 

used 
To  every  mood  and  temper  of  the  burn. 

Yet,  though  he  gazed  so  far,  he  missed  no  turn 
In  all  those  climbing  miles  of  snow-blind  way 
Until  the  car  stopt  dead  by  Gallows'  Brae, 
And  they'd  to  leave  her  underneath  a  dyke, 
And  plunge  knee-deep  through  drift- choked  slack 
and  syke 

92 


THE  DOCTOR 

Until  they  reached  the  plank  that  still  held  fast 
Though  quivering  underfoot  in  that  wild  blast 
Like  a  stretched  bow-string.    Dizzily  they  crossed 
Above  that  brawling  blackness,  torn  and  tossed 
To  flashing  spray  about  the  lantern.    Then 
Setting  their  teeth,  they  took  the  brae,  like  men 
At  desperate  hazard  charging  certain  death: 
And  nigh  the  crest  the  doctor  reeled — his  breath 
Knocked  out  of  him,  and  sinking  helplessly 
Knew  nothing  till  he  wakened  drowsily 
Before  the  peat  and  found  himself  alone 
In  a  strange  kitchen. 

But  a  heavy  moan 

Just  overhead  recalled  him,  and  he  leapt 
Instantly  to  his  feet,  alert,  and  crept 
Upstairs  with  noiseless  step  until  he  came 
To  the  low  bedroom  where  the  candle  flame 
Showed  the  old  woman  standing  by  the  bed 
On  which  the  young  wife  lay.    His  noiseless  tread 
Scarce  startling  them,  he  paused  a  moment  while 
Those  strained  white  lips  and  wild  eyes  strove  to 

smile 

Bravely  and  tenderly  as  the  husband  bent 
Over  the  bed  to  kiss  her.    When  he  went 
Without  a  word,  closing  the  creaking  door 
And  creeping  quietly  downstairs,  once  more 
The  room  was  filled  with  moaning. 


When  at  last 
His  part  was  done,  and  danger  safely  past, 

93 


LIVELIHOOD 

And  into  a  wintry  world  with  lusty  crying 

That  little  life  had  ventured,  and  was  lying 

Beside  the  drowsy  mother  on  the  bed, 

Downstairs  the  doctor  stole  with  noiseless  tread, 

And,  entering  the  kitchen  quietly, 

Saw  the  young  father  gazing  fearfully 

Into  the  fire  with  dazed  unseeing  eyes. 

He  spoke  to  him:  and  still  he  did  not  rise, 

But  sat  there  staring  with  that  senseless  gaze 

Set  on  the  peat  that  with  a  sudden  blaze 

Lit  up  his  drawn  face,  bloodless  'neath  its  tan. 

But  when  the  doctor  stooped  and  touched  the  man 

Upon  the  shoulder,  starting  to  his  feet 

He  staggered,  almost  falling  in  the  peat, 

Whispering  "She's  safe!    She's  safe!" 

And  then  he  leapt 

Suddenly  up  the  stair.    The  doctor  crept 
Speedily  after  him  without  a  sound : 
But  when  he  reached  the  upper  room  he  found 
He  wasn't  needed.    The  young  husband  bent 
Over  his  wife  and  baby,  quiet,  content: 
Then   the  wife  stirred,   opening  her  eyes,   and 

smiled 

And  they  together  looked  upon  their  child. 
The  doctor  drowsed  till  dawn  beside  the  peat, 
Napping  uneasily  in  the  high-backed  seat, 
Half- conscious    of    the    storm    that    shook    the 

pane 
And  rattled  at  the  door  .  .  . 

And  now  again 

He  seemed  to  stand  beside  the  lonely  bed 

94 


THE  DOCTOR 

He'd    stood    beside    last    night — the    old   man, 

dead, 

With  staring  eyes,  dropt  jaw,  and  rigid  grin 
That  held  the  stark  white  features,  peaked  and 

thin— 

The  old  man,  left  alone,  with  not  a  friend 
To  make  his  body  seemly  in  the  end, 
Or  close  his  eyes  .  .  . 

And  then  the  lusty  cry 
Of  that  young  baby  screaming  hungrily 
Broke  through  his  dream.  .  .  . 


The  car  was  running  well. 
Held  soon  be  home,  and  sleeping — till  the  bell 
Should  rouse  him  to  a  world  of  old  men  dying 
Alone,  and  hungry  newborn  babies  crying. 


95 


THE  LAMP 

She  couldn't  bring  herself  to  bar  the  door — 
And  him  on  the  wrong  side  of  it.    Nevermore 
She'ld    hear    his    footstep    on    the    threshold- 
stone  .  .  . 

"You're  not  afraid  to  lie  all  night  alone, 

And  Jim  but  newly  drowned?"  they'd  asked:  and 

she 

Had  turned  upon  her  neighbours  wonderingly. 
"Afraid  of  what? "  she  said.    "Afraid  of  him; " 
The  neighbours  answered.    "Me — afraid  of  Jim! 
And  after  all  these  years!"  she  cried — "and  he — 
How  can  you  think  that  he'ld  bring  harm  to  me? 
You  know  him  better,  surely,  even  you ! 
And  I  .  .  ."   Then  they  had  left  her,  for  they  knew 
Too  well  that  any  word  that  they  could  say 
Would  help  her  nothing. 

When  they'd  gone  away, 
Leaving  her  to  her  trouble,  she  arose, 
And,  taking  from  the  kist  his  Sunday  clothes, 
Folded  so  neatly,  kept  so  carefully 
In  camphor,  free  of  moth,  half-absently 
She  shook  them  out,  and  hung  them  up  to  air 
Before  the  fire  upon  his  high-backed  chair: 

96 


THE  LAMP 

And  then  when  they  were  aired  she  folded  them 
Carefully,  seam  to  seam  and  hem  to  hem, 
And  smoothing  them  with  tender  hands,  again 
She  laid  them  in  the  kist  where  they  had  lain 
Six  days  a  week  for  hard  on  forty  year  .  .  . 

Ay,  forty  year  they'd  shared  each  hope  and  fear — 
They  two,  together — yet  she  might  not  tend 
With  loving  hands  his  body  in  the  end. 
The  sea  had  taken  him  from  her.    And  she — 
She  could  do  nothing  for  him  now.    The  sea 
Had  taken  him  from  her.    And  nevermore 
Might  she  do  anything  for  him  .  .  . 

The  door 
Flapped  in  the  wind.    She  shut  and  snecked  it 

tight, 

But  did  not  bolt  it.    Then  she  set  a  light 
In  the  white-curtained  window,  where  it  shone 
As  clearly  as  on  each  night  that  he  had  gone 
Out  with  the  boats  in  all  that  forty  year, 
And  each  night  she  had  watched  it  burning  clear, 
Alone  and  wakeful  .  .  .  and,  though  lonelier, 
She'ld  lie  to-night  as  many  a  night  she'd  lain 
On  her  left  side,  with  face  turned   towards  the 

pane, 

So  that,  if  she  should  wake,  at  once  she'ld  see 
If  still  her  beacon-light  burned  steadily, 
Feeling  that,  may  be,  somewhere  in  the  night 
Of  those  dark  waters  he  could  see  the  light 
Far  off  and  very  dim,  a  little  spark 
Of  comfort  burning  for  him  in  the  dark, 

97 


LIVELIHOOD 

And,  even  though  it  should  dwindle  from  his  sight, 
It  seemed  to  her  that  he  must  feel  the  light 
Burning  within  his  heart,  the  light  of  home  .  .  . 

From  those  black  cruel  waters  sudden  foam 
Flashed  as  she  gazed;  and  with  a  shuddering  stir, 
As  though  cold  drowning  waves  went  over  her, 
She  stood  a  moment  gasping.    Then  she  turned 
From  the  bright  window  where  her  watch-light 

burned 

And,  taking  off  her  clothes,  crept  into  bed 
To  see  if  she  could  sleep.    But  when  her  head 
Touched  the  cold  pillow,  such  hot  restlessness 
She  felt,  she'd  half-a-mind  to  rise  and  dress 
Each  moment,  as  she  tossed  from  side  to  side. 
The  bed  to-night  seemed  very  big  and  wide 
And  hard  and  cold  to  her,  though  a  hot  ache 
Held  her  whole  body  tingling  wide  awake 
Turning  and  tossing  half  the  endless  night. 

Then  quieter  she  lay,  and  watched  the  light 

Burning  so  steadily,  until  the  flame 

Dazzled  her  eyes,  and  golden  memories  came 

Out  of  the  past  to  comfort  her.    She  lay 

Remembering, — remembering  that  day 

Nigh  twenty  years  since  when  she'd  thought  him 

drowned, 
And  after  all  ... 

She  heard  again  the  sound 
Of  seas  that  swept  a  solid  wall  of  green, 
Such  seas  as  living  eye  had  never  seen, 

98 


THE  LAMP 

Over  the  rock-bound  harbour,  with  a  roar 

Rushing  the  beach,  tossing  against  the  door 

Driftwood  and  old  cork-floats,  slashing  the  pane 

With  flying  weed  again  and  yet  again, 

As  toppling  to  disaster,  sea  on  sea 

Beneath  that  crashing  wind  broke  furiously 

Almost  upon  the  very  threshold-stone 

In  white  tumultuous  thunder.    All  alone 

She  watched  through  that  long  morn:  too  much 

afraid 

To  stir  or  do  a  hand's  turn,  her  heart  prayed 
One  prayer  unceasingly,  though  not  a  word 
Escaped  her  lips;  till  in  a  lull  she  heard 
A  neighbour  call  out  that  the  Morning  Star 
Had  gone  ashore  somewhere  beyond  Hell  Scar, 
Hard  by  the  Wick,  and  all  ...  and  then  the  roar 
Drowned  everything.  .  .  . 

And  how  she  reached  the  door 
She  never  knew.    She  found  herself  outside 
Suddenly  face  to  face  with  that  mad  tide, 
Battling  for  breach  against  a  wind  that  fought 
Each  inch  with  her,  as  she  turned  North,  and 

caught 

Her  bodily,  and  flung  her  reeling  back 
A  dozen  times  before  she  reached  the  track 
That  runs  along  the  crag-top  to  the  Head. 
Bent  double,  still  she  struggled  on,  half-dead, 
For  not  a  moment  could  she  stand  upright 
Against  that  wind,  striving  with  all  her  might 
To  reach  the  Wick.   She  struggled  through  that  wind 
As  through  cold  clinging  water,  deaf  and  blind; 
99 


LIVELIHOOD 

And  numb  and  heavy  in  that  icy  air 

Her  battered  body  felt,  as  though,  stark-bare, 

She  floundered  in  deep  seas.    Once  in  a  lull 

Flat  on  her  face  she  fell.    A  startled  gull 

Rose  skirling  at  her;  and  with  burning  eyes 

She  lay  a  moment,  far  too  scared  to  rise, 

Staring  into  a  gully,  black  as  night, 

In  which  the  seething  waters  frothing  white 

Thundered  from  crag  to  crag,  and  baffled  leapt 

A  hundred  feet  in  air.    She'd  nearly  stept 

Into  that  gully.    Just  in  time  the  wind 

Had  dropt.     One  moment  more,  and  headlong, 

blind, 

She'd  tumbled  into  that  pit  of  death  .  .  .  and  Jim, 
If  he  were  living  yet  .  .  . 

The  thought  of  him 

Startled  her  to  her  feet:  and  on  once  more 
Against  a  fiercer  wind  along  the  shore 
She  struggled  with  set  teeth,  and  dragging  hair 
Drenched  in  the  sousing  spray  that  leapt  in  air 
Spinning  and  hissing,  smiting  her  like  hail. 

Then  when  it  almost  seemed  that  she  must  fail 
To  reach  the  Wick,  alive  or  dead,  she  found 
That  she  was  there  already.    To  the  ground 
She  sank,  dead-beat.    Almost  too  faint  and  weak 
To  lift  her  head,  her  wild  eyes  sought  the  creek; 
But  there  she  saw  no  sign  of  boat  or  man — 
Only  a  furious  smother  of  seas  that  ran 
Along  the  slanting  jetty  ceaselessly. 
Groping  for  life,  she  searched  that  spumy  sea 
100 


For  sail  or  sign  in  vain:  then  knew  no  more  .  .  . 
Till  she  was  lifted  by  strong  arms  that  bore 
Her  safely  through  the  storm,  lying  at  rest 
Without  a  care  upon  her  husband's  breast 
Unquestioning,  till  she  reached  home,  content 
To  feel  his  arms  about  her,  as  he  bent 
Over  her  tenderly  and  breathed  her  name. 

And  then  she  heard  how,  back  from  death,  he 

came 

Unscathed  to  her,  by  some  strange  mercy  thrown 
Alive  almost  upon  his  threshold-stone: 
When,  hearing  where  she'd  gone,  he'd  followed  her 
Hot-foot  .  .  . 

The  breath  of  dawn  began  to  blur 
The  shining  pane  with  mist  .  .  .  And  nevermore 
His  foot  would  follow  her  along  that  shore. 
The  sea  had  taken  him  from  her,  at  last, 
Had  taken  him  to  keep  .  .  . 

Then  from  the  past 
She  waked  with   eyes   that  looked  beyond   the 

light, 

Still  burning  clearly,  into  the  lingering  night, 
Black  yet,  beyond  the  streaming  window-pane 
Down  which  big  glistening  drops  of  gentle  rain 
Trickled  until  they  dazzled  her;  and  she  lay 
Again  remembering — how  ere  break  of  day 
When  she  was  young  she'd  had  to  rise  and  go 
Along  the  crag-top  some  five  mile  or  so, 
With  other  lads  and  lasses,  to  Skateraw 
To  gather  bait  .  .  . 

101 


LIVELIHOOD 

Again  her  young  eyes  saw 
Those  silent  figures  with  their  creels,  dead-black 
Against  the  stars,  climbing  the  sheer  cliff:track 
In  single  file  before  her,  or  quite  bright 
As  suddenly  the  light-house  flashed  its  light 
Full  on  them,  stepping  up  out  of  the  night 
On  to  the  day-bright  crag-top — kindling  white, 
A  moment,  windy  hair  and  streaming  grass. 
Again  she  trudged,  a  drowsy  little  lass, 
The  youngest  of  them  all,  across  dim  fields 
By  sleeping  farms  and  ruined  roofless  bields, 
Frightened  by  angry  dogs  that,  roused  from  sleep, 
Yelped  after  them,  or  by  a  startled  sheep 
That  scurried  by  her  suddenly,  while  she 
Was  staring  at  a  ship's  lights  out  at  sea, 
With  dreaming  eyes,  or  counting  countless  stars 
That  twinkled  bright  beyond  the  jagged  scars: 
Or  stumbled  over  a  slippery  shingle-beach 
Beneath  her  creel,  and  shuddered  at  the  screech 
And  sudden  clamour  of  wings  that  round  her 

flapped. 

Again  she  felt  that  cruel  cold.    Though  hapt 
In  the  big  shawl,   the  raw  wind  searched  her 

through 
Till   every  bone   ached.     Then   once   more   she 

knew 

Brief  respite  when  at  last  they  reached  Skateraw 
And  rested  till  the  dawn. 

Again  she  saw 

Those  dark  groups  sitting  quiet  in  the  night 
Awaiting  the  first  blink  of  morning-light, 
102 


THE   "LAMP 

To  set  to  work  gathering  the  bait,  while  she 
Sang  to  them  as  they  sat  beside  the  sea. 
They  always  made  her  sing,  for  she'd  a  voice 
When  she  was  young,  she  had,  and  such  a  choice 
Of  words  and  airs  by  heart:  and  she  was  glad 
To  turn  a  tune  for  any  lass  or  lad 
Who'ld  ask  her,  always  glad  to  hear  them  say: 
"Come,  Singing  Sally,  give  us  l Duncan  Gray/ 
'The  De'il  among  the  Tailors/  'Elsie  Marley/ 
'The  Keel-Row'  or  'The  Wind  among  the  Bar- 
ley' "; 
And  always  gladdest  when  'twas  Jim  would  ask. 

Again,  as  they  would  settle  to  their  task 
Of  gathering  clammy  mussels,  that  cold  ache 
Stole  through  her  bones.    It  seemed  her  back  must 

break 

Each  time  she  stooped,  or  lifted  up  her  head, 
Though  still  she  worked  with  fingers  raw  and 

red 

Until  her  creel  was  filled.    But,  toiling  back, 
Staggering  beneath  her  load  along  the  track, 
Jim  would  come  up  with  her  and  take  her  creel 
And  bear  it  for  her,  if  she'ld  sing  a  reel 
To  keep  their  hearts  up  as  they  trudged  along. 
Half-numb  with  sleep,  she'ld  start  a  dancing-song, 
And  sing,  the  fresh  wind  blowing  in  her  face, 
Until  the  dancing  blood  began  to  race 
Through  her  young  body,  and  her  heart  grew 

light, 

Forgetting  all  the  labours  of  the  night  .  .  . 
103 


LIVELIHOOD 

Once  more  she  walked  light-foot  to  that  gay  air, 
The  wind  of  morning  fresh  on  face  and  hair, 
A  girl  again  .  .  . 

And  Jim,  'twas  always  he 
Who  bore  her  burden  for  her  .  .  . 

Quietly 

With  eyes  upon  the  golden  lamp  she  lay, 
While,  all  unseen  of  her,  the  winter  day 
Behind    the    dim    wet    pane    broke    bleak    and 
cold. 

She  seemed  to  look  upon  a  dawn  of  gold 
That  kindled  every  dancing  wave  to  glee 
As  she  walked  homeward  singing  by  the  sea, 
As  she  walked  homeward  with  the  windy  stir 
Fresh  in  her  flying  hair,  and  over  her 
Jim  leant — young  lucky  Jim — a  kindly  lad 
Taking    the    creel;    and    her    girl's    heart    was 

glad 
As  ... 

.  .  .  clasped  within  each  other's  arms,  the 

deep 
Closed  over  them  .  .  . 

Smiling,  she  fell  asleep. 


104 


THE  PLATELAYER 

Tapping  the  rails  as  he  went  by 
And  driving  the  slack  wedges  tight, 
He  walked  towards  the  morning  sky 
Between  two  golden  lines  of  light 
That  dwindled  slowly  into  one 
Sheer  golden  rail  that  ran  right  on 
Over  the  fells  into  the  sun. 

And  dazzling  in  his  eyes  it  shone, 
That  golden  track,  as  left  and  right 
He  swung  his  clinking  hammer — ay, 
'Twas  dazzling  after  that  long  night 
In  Hindfell  tunnel,  working  by 
A  smoky  flare,  and  making  good 
The  track  the  rains  had  torn  .  .  . 

Clink,  clink, 

On  the  sound  metal — on  the  wood 
A  duller  thwack! 

It  made  him  blink, 
That  running  gold  .  .  . 

'Twas  sixteen  hours 
Since  he'd  left  home — his  garden  smelt 
So  fragrant  with  the  heavy  showers 
When  he  left  home —  and  now  he  felt 
That  it  would  smell  more  fresh  and  sweet 
105 


LIVELIHOOD 

After  the  tunnel's  reek  and  fume 
Of  damp  warm  cinders.    'Twas  a  treat 
To  come  upon  the  scent  and  bloom 
That  topped  the  cutting  by  the  wood 
After  the  cinders  of  the  track, 
The  cinders  and  tarred  sleepers — good 
To  lif t  your  eyes  from  gritty  black 
Upon  that  blaze  of  green  and  red  .  .  . 
And  she'ld  be  waiting  by  the  fence, 
And  with  the  baby  .  .  . 

Straight  for  bed 

He'ld  make,  if  he  had  any  sense, 
And  sleep  the  day;  but,  like  as  not, 
When  he'd  had  breakfast,  he'ld  turn  to 
And  hoe  the  back  potato-plot: 
'Twould  be  one  mass  of  weeds  he  knew. 
You'ld  think  each  single  drop  of  rain 
Turned  as  it  fell  into  a  weed. 
You  seemed  to  hoe  and  hoe  in  vain. 
Chickweed  and  groundsel  didn't  heed 
The  likes  of  him — and  bindweed,  well, 
You  hoed  and  hoed — still  its  white  roots 
Ran  deeper  .  .  . 

'Twould  be  good  to  smell 
The  fresh  turned  earth,  and  feel  his  boots 
Sink  deep  into  the  brown  wet  mould, 
After  hard  cinders  .  .  . 

And,  maybe, 

The  baby,  sleeping  good  as  gold 
In  its  new  carriage  under  a  tree, 
Would  keep  him  company,  while  his  wife 
106 


THE  PLATELAYER 

Washed  up  the  breakfast- things. 

'Twas  strange, 

The  difference  that  she  made  to  life, 
That  tiny  baby-girl. 

The  change 

Of  work  would  make  him  sleep  more  sound. 
'Twas  sleep  he  needed.    That  long  night 
Shovelling  wet  cinders  underground, 
With  breaking  back,  the  smoky  light 
Stinging  his  eyes  till  they  were  sore  .  .  . 
He'd  worked  the  night  that  she  was  born, 
Standing  from  noon  the  day  before 
All  through  that  winter's  night  till  morn 
Laying  fog-signals  on  the  line 
Where  it  ran  over  Devil's  Ghyll  .  .  . 

And  she  was  born  at  half-past  nine, 
Just  as  he  stood  aside  until 
The  Scots  Express  ran  safely  by  ... 
He'd  but  to  shut  his  eyes  to  see 
Those  windows  flashing  blindingly 
A  moment  through  the  blizzard — he 
Could  feel  again  that  slashing  snow 
That  seemed  to  cut  his  face. 

But  they, 

The  passengers,  they  couldn't  know 
What  it  cost  him  to  keep  the  way 
Open  for  them.    So  snug  and  warm 
They  slept  or  chattered,  while  he  stood 
And  faced  all  night  that  raking  storm — 
The  little  house  beside  the  wood 
107 


LIVELIHOOD 

Forever  in  his  thoughts:  and  he, 

Not  knowing  what  was  happening  .  .  . 

But  all  went  well  as  well  could  be 
With  Sally  and  the  little  thing. 
And  it  had  been  worth  while  to  wait 
Through  that  long  night  with  work  to  do, 
To  meet  his  mother  at  the  gate 
With  such  good  news,  and  find  it  true, 
Ay,  truer  than  the  truth. 

He  still 

Could  see  his  wife's  eyes  as  he  bent 
Over  the  bairn  .  .  . 

The  Devil's  Ghyll 

Had  done  its  worst,  and  he  was  spent; 
But  he'ld  have  faced  a  thousand  such 
Wild  nights  as  thon,  to  see  that  smile 
Again,  and  feel  that  tender  touch 
Upon  his  cheek. 

'Twas  well  worth  while 
With  such  reward.    And  it  was  strange, 
The  difference  such  a  little  thing 
Could  make  to  them — how  it  could  change 
Their  whole  life  for  them,  and  could  bring 
Such  happiness  to  them,  though  they 
Had  seemed  as  happy  as  could  be 
Before  it  came  to  them. 

The  day 

Was  shaping  well.    And  there  was  she, 
The  lassie  sleeping  quietly 
Within  her  arms,  beside  the  gate. 

The  storm  had  split  that  lilac  tree. 
But  he  was  tired,  and  it  must  wait. 
108 


MAKESHIFTS 

And  after  all,  'twas  snug  and  weather-tight, 
His  garret.    That  was  much  on  such  a  night — 
To  be  secure  against  the  wind  and  sleet 
At  his  age,  and  not  wandering  the  street, 
A  shuffling,  shivering  bag-of-bones. 

And  yet 

Things  would  be  snugger  if  he  could  forget 
The  bundle  of  old  dripping  rags  that  slouched 
Before  him  down  the  Cannongate,  and  crouched 
Close  to  the  swing-doors  of  the  Spotted  Cow. 
Why,  he  could  see  that  poor  old  sinner  now, 
Ay!  and  could  draw  him,  if  he'd  had  the  knack 
Of  drawing  anything — a  steamy,  black 
Dilapidation,  basking  in  the  glare, 
And  sniffing  with  his  swollen  nose  in  air 
To  catch   the  hot  reek  when  the  door  swings 

wide 

And  shows  the  glittering  paradise  inside, 
Where  men  drink  golden  fire  on  seats  of  plush 
Lolling  like  gods :  he  stands  there  in  the  slush 
Shivering,  from  squelching  boots  to  sopping  hat 
One  sodden  clout,  and  blinking  like  a  bat 
Be-dazzled  by  the  blaze  of  light:  his  beard 
Waggles  and  drips  from  lank  cheeks  pocked  and 

seared; 

And  the  whole  dismal  night  about  him  drips, 
As  he  stands  gaping  there  with  watering  lips 
109 


LIVELIHOOD 

And  burning  eyes  in  the  cold  sleety  drench 
Afire  with  thirst  that  only  death  may  quench. 

Yet  he  had  clutched  the  sixpence  greedily 

As  if  sixpennyworth  of  rum  maybe 

Would  satisfy  that  thirst.    Who  knows!    It  might 

Just  do  the  trick  perhaps  on  such  a  night, 

And  death  would  be  a  golden,  fiery  drink 

To  that  old  scarecrow.    'Twould  be  good  to  think 

His  money'd  satisfied  that  thirst,  and  brought 

Rest  to  those  restless  fevered  bones  that  ought 

Long  since   to   have   dropped   for   ever  out  of 

sight. 

It  wasn't  decent,  wandering  the  night 
Like  that — not  decent.    While  it  lived  it  made 
A  man  turn  hot  to  see  it,  and  afraid 
To  look  it  in  the  face  lest  he  should  find 
That  bundle  was  himself,  grown  old  and  blind 
With  thirst  unsatisfied. 

He'd  thirsted,  too, 

His  whole  life  long,  though  not  for  any  brew 
That  trickled  out  of  taps  in  gaudy  bars 
For  those  with  greasy  pence  to  spend! 

The  stars 

Were  not  for  purchase,  neither  bought  nor  sold 
By  any  man  for  silver  or  for  gold. 

Still,  he  was  snug  and  sheltered  from  the  storm. 
He  sat  by  his  own  hearth  secure  and  warm, 
And  that  was  much  indeed  on  such  a  night. 
The  little  room  was  pleasant  with  the  light 
no 


MAKESHIFTS 

Glowing  on  lime-washed  walls,  kindling  to  red 
His  copper  pots,  and,  over  the  white  bed, 
The  old  torn  Rembrandt  print  to  golden  gloom. 
'Twas  much  on  such  a  night  to  have  a  room — 
Four  walls  and  ceiling  storm-tight  overhead. 
Denied  the  stars — well,  you  must  spend  instead 
Your  sixpences  on  makeshifts.    Life  was  naught 
But  toiling  for  the  sixpences  that  bought 
Makeshifts  for  stars. 

'Twas  snug  to  hear  the  sleet 
Lashing  the  panes  and  sweeping  down  the  street 
Towards  Holyrood  and  out  into  the  night 
Of  hills  beyond.    Maybe  it  would  be  white 
On  Arthur's  Seat  to-morrow,  white  with  snow — 
A  white  hill  shining  in  the  morning  glow 
Beyond  the  chimney-pots,  that  was  a  sight 
For  any  man  to  see — a  snowy  height 
Soaring  into  the  sunshine.    He  was  glad 
Though  he  must  live  in  slums,  his  garret  had 
A  window  to  the  hills. 

And  he  was  warm, 

Ay,  warm  and  snug,  shut  in  here  from  the  storm. 
The  sixpences  bought  comfort  for  old  bones 
That  else  must  crouch  all  night  on  paving-stones 
Unsheltered  from  the  cold. 

'Twas  hard  to  learn 

In  his  young  days  that  this  was  life — to  earn 
By  life-long  labour  just  your  board  and  bed — 
Although  the  stars  were  singing  overhead, 
The  sons  of  morning  singing  together  for  joy 
As  they  had  sung  for  every  bright-eyed  boy 
in 


LIVELIHOOD 

With  ears  to  hear  since  life  itself  was  young — 
And  leave  so  much  unseen,  so  much  unsung. 

He'd  had  to  learn  that  lesson.    'Twas  no  good 

To  go  star-gazing  for  a  livelihood 

With  empty  belly.    Though  he  had  a  turn 

For  seeing  things,  when  you  have  got  to  earn 

Your  daily  bread  first,  there  is  little  time 

To  paint  your  dream  or  set  the  stars  to  rhyme: 

Nay,    though    you    have    the    vision    and    the 

skill 

You  cannot  draw  the  outline  of  a  hill 
To   please   yourself,  when  you   get   home   half- 
dead 

After  the  day's  work — hammers  in  your  head 
Still  tapping,  tapping  .  .  . 

Always  mad  to  draw 
The  living  shape  of  everything  he  saw 
He'd  had  to  spend  his  utmost  skill  and  strength 
Learning  a  trade  to  live  by,  till  at  length 
Now  he'd  the  leisure  the  old  skill  was  dead. 

Born  for  a  painter  as  it  seemed,  instead 
He'd  spent  his  life  upholstering  furniture. 
'Twas  natural  enough  men  should  prefer 
Upholstery  to  pictures,  and  their  ease 
To  little  coloured  daubs  of  cows  and  trees. 
He  didn't  blame  them,  'twas  no  fault  of  theirs 
That  they  saw  life  in  terms  of  easy  chairs, 
And  heaven,  like  that  old  sinner  in  the  slush, 
A  glittering  bar  upholstered  in  red  plush. 
112 


MAKESHIFTS 

JTwas  strange  to  look  back  on  it  now,  his  life  .  .  . 
His  father,  married  to  a  second  wife; 
And  home,  no  home  for  him  since  he  could  mind, 
Save  when  the  starry  vision  made  him  blind 
To  all  about  him,  and  he  walked  on  air 
For  days  together,  and  without  a  care  .  .  . 
But  as  the  years  passed,  seldomer  they  came 
Those  starry  dazzling  nights  and  days  aflame, 
And  of  tener  a  sudden  gloom  would  drop 
Upon  him,  drudging  all  day  in  the  shop 
With  his  young  brother  John — John  always  gay 
Taking  things  as  they  came,  the  easy  way, 
Not  minding  overmuch  if  things  went  wrong 
At  home,  and  always  humming  a  new  song  .  .  . 

And  then  she  came  into  his  life,  and  shook 
All  heaven  about  him.    He  had  but  to  look 
On  her  to  find  the  stars  within  his  reach. 
But,  ere  his  love  had  trembled  into  speech, 
He'd  waked  one  day  to  know  that  not  for  him 
Were  those  bright  living  eyes  that  turned  dreams 

dim — 

To  know  that  while  he'd  worshipped,  John  and  she 
Had  taken  to  each  other  easily  .  .  . 

But  that  was  years  ago  .  .  .  and  now  he  sat 
Beside  a  lonely  hearth.    And  they  were  fat — 
Ay,  fat  and  old  they  were,  John  and  his  wife, 
And  with  a  grown-up  family.    Their  life 
Had  not  been  over-easy:  they'd  their  share 
Of  trouble,  ay,  more  than  enough  to  spare: 


LIVELIHOOD 

But  they  had  made  the  best  of  things,  and  taken 
Life  as  it  came  with  courage  still  unshaken. 
They'd  faced  their  luck,  but  never  gone  half-way 
To  meet  fresh  trouble.    Life  was  always  gay 
For   them   between    the   showers:    the   roughest 

weather 

Might  do  its  worst — they  always  stood  together 
To  bear  the  brunt,  together  stood  their  ground 
And   came  through  smiling  cheerfully.     They'd 

found 

Marriage  a  hard-up,  happy  business 
Of  hand-to-mouth  existence  more  or  less; 
But  taking  all  in  all,  well  worth  their  while 
To  look  on  the  bright  side  of  things — to  smile 
When  all  went  well,  not  fearing  overmuch 
When  life  was  suddenly  brought  to  the  touch 
And  you'd  to  sink  or  swim.     And  they'd  kept 

hold, 

And  even  now,  though  they  were  fat  and  old 
They'd  still  a  hearty  grip  on  life  ... 

They'ld  be 

Sitting  there  in  their  kitchen  after  tea 
On  either  side  the  fire-place  even  now — 
Jane  with  her  spectacles  upon  her  brow, 
And  nodding  as  she  knitted,  listening 
While  John,  in  shirt-sleeves,  scraped  his  fiddle- 
string, 

With  one  ear  hearkening  lest  a  foot  should  stop 
And  some  rare  customer  invade  the  shop 
To  ask  the  price  of  that  old  Flanders'  chest 
Or  oaken  ale-house  settle  .  .  . 
114 


MAKESHIFTS 

They'd  the  best 
Of  life,  maybe,  together  .  .  . 

And  yet  he — 

Though  he'd  not  taken  life  so  easily, 
Had  always  hated  makeshifts  more  or  less, 
Grudging  to  swop  the  stars  for  sixpences, 
And  was  an  old  man  now,  with  that  old  thirst 
Unsatisfied — ay,  even  at  the  worst 
He'd  had  his  compensations,  now  and  then 
A  starry  glimpse.    You  couldn't  work  with  men 
And   quite   forget   the  stars.     Though   life  was 

spent 

In  drudgery,  it  hadn't  only  meant 
Upholstering  chairs  in  crimson  plush  for  bars  .  .  . 
Maybe  it  gave  new  meaning  to  the  stars, 
The  drudgery,  who  knows! 

At  least  the  rare 
Wild   glimpses   he   had   caught   at   whiles   were 

there 

Yet  living  in  his  mind.    When  much  was  dim 
And  drudgery  forgotten,  bright  for  him 
Burned  even  now  in  memory  old  delights 
That  had  been  his  in  other  days  and  nights. 
He'd  always  seen,  though  never  could  express 
His  eyes'  delight,  or  only  more  or  less: 
But  things  once  clearly  seen,  once  and  for  all 
The  soul's  possessions — naught  that  may  befall 
May  ever  dun,  and  neither  moth  nor  rust 
Corrupt  the  dream,  that,  shedding  mortal  dust, 
Has  soared  to  life  and  spread  its  wings  of  gold 
Within  the  soul  .  .  . 

"5 


LIVELIHOOD 

And  yet  when  they  were  told 
These  deathless  visions,  little  things  they  seemed 
Though  something  of  the  beauty  he  had  dreamed 
Burned  in  them,  something  of  his  youth's  desire  . . . 

And  as  he  sat  there,  gazing  at  the  fire — 
Once  more  he  lingered,  listening  in  the  gloom 
Of  that  great  silent  warehouse,  in  the  room 
Where  stores  were  kept,  one  hand  upon  a  shelf, 
And  heard  a  lassie  singing  to  herself 
Somewhere  unseen  without  a  thought  who  heard, 
Just  singing  to  herself  like  any  bird 
Because  the  heart  was  happy  in  her  breast, 
As  happy  as  the  day  was  long.   At  rest 
He  lingered,  listening,  and  a  ray  of  light 
Streamed  from  the  dormer-window  up  a  height; 
Down  on  the  bales  of  crimson  cloth,  and  lit 
To  sudden  gold  the  dust  that  danced  in  it, 
Till  he  was  dazzled  by  the  golden  motes 
That  kept  on  dancing  to  those  merry  notes 
Before  his  dreaming  eyes,  and  danced  as  long 
As  he  stood  listening  to  the  lassie's  song  .  .  . 

Then  once  again,  his  work-bag  on  his  back, 
He  climbed  that  April  morning  up  the  track 
That  took  you  by  a  short  cut  through  the  wood 
Up  to  the  hill-top  where  the  great  house  stood, 
When  suddenly  beyond  the  firs'  thick  night 
He  saw  a  young  fawn  frisking  in  the  light: 
Shaking  the  dew-drops  in  a  silver  rain 
From  off  his  dappled  hide,  he  leapt  again 
116 


MAKESHIFTS 

As  though  he'ld  jump  out  of  his  skin  for  joy. 
With  laughing  eyes  light-hearted  as  a  boy 
He  watched  the  creature  unaware  of  him 
Quivering  with  eager  life  in  every  limb, 
Leaping  and  frisking  on  the  dewy  green 
Beneath  the  flourish  of  the  snowy  gean, 
While  every  now  and  then  the  long  ears  pricked, 
And  budding  horns,  as  he  leapt  higher,  flicked 
The  drooping  clusters  of  wild-cherry  bloom. 
Shaking  their  snow  about  him.    From  the  gloom 
Of  those  dark  wintry  firs,  his  eyes  had  won 
A  sight  of  April  sporting  in  the  sun — 
Young  April  leaping  to  its  heart's  delight 
Among  the  dew  beneath  the  boughs  of  white  .  .  . 

And    there'd   been  days   among    the   hills,   rare 

days 

And  rarer  nights  among  the  heathery  ways — 
Rare  golden  holidays  when  he  had  been 
Alone  in  the  great  solitude  of  green 
Wave-crested  hills,  a  rolling  shoreless  sea 
Flowing  for  ever  through  eternity — 
A  sea  of  grasses,  streaming  without  rest 
Beneath    the    great    wind    blowing    from    the 

west, 
Over    which    cloud    shadows    sailed    and    swept 

away 
Beyond  the  world's  edge  all  the  summer  day. 

The  hills  had  been  his  refuge,  his  delight, 
Seen  or  unseen,  through  many  a  day  or  night. 
117 


LIVELIHOOD 

His  help  was  of  the  hills,  steadfast,  serene 

In     their     eternal     strength,     those     shapes    of 

green 
Sublimely  moulded. 

Whatsoever  his  skill, 
No  man  had  ever  rightly  drawn  a  hill 
To  his  mind — never  caught  the  subtle  curves 
Of  sweeping  moorland  with  its  dips  and  swerves — 
Nor  ever  painted  heather  .  .  . 

Heather  came 

Always  into  his  mind  like  sudden  flame, 
Blazing  and  streaming  over  stony  braes 
As  he  had  seen  it  on  that  day  of  days 
When  he  had  plunged  into  a  sea  of  bloom, 
Blinded  with  colour,  stifled  with  the  fume 
Of  sun-soaked  blossom,  the  hot  heady  scent 
Of  honey-breathing  bells,  and  sunk  content 
Into  a  soft  and  scented  bed  to  sleep; 
And  he  had  lain  in  slumber  sweet  and  deep, 
And  only  wakened  when  the  full  moon's  light 
Had  turned  that  wavy  sea  of  heather  white: 
And  still  he'd  lain  within  the  full  moon  blaze 
Hour  after  hour,  bewildered  and  adaze 
As  though  enchanted — in  a  waking  swoon 
He'd  lain  within  the  full  glare  of  the  moon 
Until  she  seemed  to  shine  on  him  alone 
In  all  the  world — as  though  his  body'd  grown 
Until  it  covered  all  the  earth,  and  he 
Was  swaying  like  the  moon-enchanted  sea 
Beneath  that  cold  white  witchery  of  light  .  .  . 
And  now,  the  earth  itself,  he  hung  in  night 

118 


MAKESHIFTS 

Turning  and  turning  in  that  cold  white  glare 
For  ever  and  for  ever  .  .  . 

She  was  there — 

There  at  his  window  now,  the  moon.    The  sleet 
And  wind  no  longer  swept  the  quiet  street. 
And  he  was  cold:  the  fire  had  burnt  quite  low: 
And,  while  he'd  dreamt,  there'd  been  a  fall  of 

snow 
He  wondered  where  that  poor  old  man  would 

hide 

His  head  to-night  with  thirst  unsatisfied  .  .  . 
His  thirst,  who  knows!  but  night  may  quench  the 

thirst 
Day  leaves  unsatisfied  .  .  . 

Well,  he  must  first 

Get  to  his  bed  and  sleep  away  the  night, 
If  he  would  rise  to  see  the  hills  still  white 
In  the  first  glory  of  the  morning  light. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


IIQ 


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1917 


DEC  Q 


y  IS  '- 

V«> 

DECS     1955  UJ 


50m-7,'16 


YB  76718 


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